


Phyxius

by innie



Category: Firefly
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:30:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Backstories for the original six crew members (incorporating "Out of Gas") up to picking up Book and the Tams in "Serenity."</p><p>"Phyxius" means "putting to flight."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phyxius

[Rasam]

She's on her way to church in the dress Ma had insisted she wear so that she couldn't sneak around to the city garage and lend a hand. It's difficult to walk in these high-heeled shoes, and she has to concentrate. She swears as a gadfly lands on her cheek and crawls quickly up into her hair. She rips the bow from her hair and shakes it loose, wanting nothing more than to feel the insect fly away. The violent motion and the treachery of her shoes pitches her forward.

A steadying hand finds her arm and sets her back on her feet. It's a friend of Daddy's, Uncle Bill. "Kaylee? Honey? Whatcha doin', dancin' in the street like a monkey?" he teases.

She flushes a bit and quickly finger-combs her hair, but recovers to say, "I'm off to save my soul. And maybe I could put up a prayer for yours too since you cain't be bothered."

He guffaws and shifts his fishing gear to the other shoulder, watching her clumsily braid her hair. "Would ya, honey? That'd be mighty nice." He takes off, whistling cheerily.

She watches him go fondly and sighs when she turns back to the direction of the church. The heels on her shoes have given slightly, so she has to pick her steps even more carefully. She's achieved a pretty decent pace, even if she's not looking graceful, when a familiar smell stops her dead in her tracks.

She takes her eyes off the road to see a man with dirty blond hair watching her. She pauses, unsure of the intent of his look. She's used to the boys who've known her all their lives givin' her that come-here-if-you-want-to-get-laid look, and gettin' it in return too, but she knows she ain't pretty enough to be attracting such looks from total strangers. All he's wearing up top is a vest made of some tough, dusty-looking material. He hasn't bothered to do up the fastenings, and there's a streak of engine grease revealed by the parting. She smiles to herself. That grease isn't there by accident. He's deliberately smeared it on himself to draw attention to his chest, to his rough-and-tumble attitude. It's the smell of it that draws her near.

He's grinning from ear to ear because his gambit worked. All he needs are a few soft words and this little backworld church mouse will be lifting her skirts for him. It's almost too easy. He reads the name cross-stitched on the bookmark tucked into her bible. "Afternoon, Miss Kaywinnit," he tosses off, noting that she hasn't met his gaze yet, that her eyes are demurely down.

Or maybe not so demure. She pushes her forefinger into his chest hard and lets it skid up, transferring some of the grease to her own skin as she does so. "Don't tell me you're using this stuff still. Ain't you got moonshine grade at least?" His eyes pop open in disbelief. She's stripped him of his pretty words and all he can do is watch as she starts putting the grease back on his torso. "You a mechanic?" He nods, watching the finger move lower, past the tattoos. "Where?"

"Ship. Called Serenity. It's a firefly . . ." his voice trails off as that finger reaches his navel and comes to rest there.

"Show me," she says, as her eyes finally meet his.

They're walking toward the ship and she's glad that he's a few proprietary steps ahead of her. She doesn't want to share the excitement the sight of the pretty firefly kindles in her. She doesn't much care if he thinks the excitement is for him. She just wants to be on board Serenity. She's savoring every moment, absently following the boy as she takes in the enchanting simplicity of the design, remembering the dusty plans Daddy had showed her. He's about to veer off in the direction of his bunk, but she stops him and points with her chin to the engine room. "There," she says, and his smirk is back, as if he's earned her arousal all by himself. He's got a hand on the sash at her waist even though they're twenty paces from the engine room yet, and he's careless enough that he runs right into the man who's standing there in the shadows looking like the whole thing is just amusing as hell.

She's afraid for a moment. She's afraid until she looks right at him. Then she knows. This man is her kind.

He's not the captain. He's not built for that, the diplomacy and the sneakiness. He's built for strength, for speed, for stamina. He's the shelter on this boat.

She's looking him up and down, and it seems he's willing to do the same. The boy she came here with is gettin' antsy, but that's his problem. She's not done here. "I'm Kaylee," she says; no point giving him the name some preacher carelessly bestowed on her while her Ma lay close to death. She wants him to know her real name. She smiles and he flinches the tiniest bit.

"Jayne," he says roughly. He fixes the boy with a look and brushes past him territorially, bumping him hard enough that his hand falls from her waist.

But it's back soon enough, pulling at her sash like her nephews tugging at her hand when they want her attention. She's hot enough now, metal all around them, thoughts of the man Jayne in her head, that she's stripping the boy in front of her and herself when he can't get it done fast enough. She's on her back, looking at the engine upside-down, and it's like a beautiful new world, made of cool light and responsive surfaces. He's finally positioned himself, but the hand on her skin is too small, too indecisive. She closes her eyes, and Jayne's hand, veined from work, cups her breast. It's Jayne's beard that scrapes teasingly along her belly, not the boy's pants which are pooled just below his hips. She's so close . . . but then something soft and skittery brushes against her face, and her eyes snap open. It's the boy's hair, and the fantasy is lost. He doesn't seem to notice, and keeps thrusting away. Her eyes drift back to the engine. She frowns, noticing something awry with the reg couple. And that's when, for real, the captain walks in.

* * *

[Mahaladu]

Kaylee knows the captain is doing her a favor, setting down here. There's no need for supplies or assistance, but on this brown-friendly planet, she can maybe find a way to send her Ma a line, maybe some of the wages the captain insisted she take for getting them to Paquin in good time, even though she's only been on board a week. Then she thinks maybe she isn't the only one the captain is pleasing; he understands the importance of morale, the dynamics of camaraderie, and the ways in which journeying can tell on people. It's funny what you would never think about yourself until you read it in someone's eyes.

And it's funny, too, what you're willing to deny yourself by not looking someone else in the eye.

She'd kept well clear of Jayne, instead using her first days getting to love Serenity, find out what makes her happy, what makes her purr. She'd worked with Wash on the bridge, played chess with Zoe, and cooked with the captain. Jayne hadn't made it difficult to avoid him, and until yesterday that was going just fine.

She'd been taking advantage of the fact that they were docked on Paquin - Jayne and Wash were handling the transaction - to take the engine apart to clean. She'd just finished reassembling, and was thinking about a quick, cool shower, and maybe a meal when the com squawked. The captain's voice came through. "Kaylee? We need you in the infirmary. Quick, but not urgent." She gets there to see Wash in a chair and Zoe sitting on the countertop with his hand in her lap. She's splinting the last two fingers of his right hand, humming an old love song as she works. Her voice is low and soothing, and Kaylee is starting to relax, until she turns and sees Jayne perched on the opposite counter, his left arm held awkwardly away from his body. She gasps, thinking that it's been broken, or the muscles slashed, but the captain steers her close with a hand on her back and says, "Ain't as bad as it looks. He's just been cut up pretty good. Now, I got to get up to the bridge. Can you handle this?" She nods dumbly and he takes off.

Closer up, she can see that Jayne is keeping his arm away from his body because his side is bleeding right through his shirt. He sits up a little straighter as she approaches, and grabs the back of his shirt with his good hand. "Wait," she says, looking for scissors to cut it open instead, but she can't find them and by the time she's turned back to him, he's pulled the shirt off. She catches her breath sharply. She's hoping he'll take it for concern at the state he's in, but of course it's not. It's for that skin, tanned by dozens of suns, for the taut muscles beneath, and the soft dark hair that covers his chest. She inches closer, trying to assess the damage. She can't stand at his side because of the counter's sharp corner, so she ends up standing between his legs. The heat coming off him is making her a little dizzy. She's never seen someone so fully man. Wash has the dinosaurs she and Zoe caught him playing with, and even the captain, for all the weight his shoulders bear, has one of the sweetest baby-faces she's ever seen, but Jayne seems to have burned through all of his boyhood and left it far behind. Standing in the V of his legs, she reaches for the rag and bowl of water the captain left out for her. She's trying to hold Jayne's arm away from his side with one hand and wash his wounds with the other, but she's only dextrous when it comes to machines. He makes it easier on her by stretching his arm straight ahead, draping it heavily on her shoulder, leaving her right hand free for her ministrations. His side is covered in blood from long, shallow cuts, the dirt of Paquin coating it all. She washes away the dirt and begins to gloss her fingers over the wounds, touching them with ointment. The smell of the unguent, the heat coming off Jayne's body, and Zoe's contralto hum are assaulting her heightened senses, and she's breathing more quickly. She's nearly panting by the time she's finished bandaging him, the white gauze throwing his dark gold skin into high relief. "There," she says, her voice sounding unnaturally loud. There's silence all around; she can't hear Zoe's song anymore and she realizes with a start that she's alone in the infirmary with Jayne.

He moves with surprising speed, using his heels to push at the backs of her knees, his left arm shifting so that the forearm now steadies her and gathers her close. "Kaylee," he says. His eyes are dark. His right hand reaches out and cups her face, his thumb slides along her cheek. She thinks at first that he must be wiping away some grease, but then she realizes with a rush of warmth that he just wanted to touch her. Her hands are on his thighs as she leans in. He meets her halfway, and their upper lips are touching, all it would take for their mouths to meet is an infinitesimal shift.

The captain's voice comes through the com beside them just then. "Everybody okay? Ship needs to look shiny now, we got a fella comin' on board, thinking of renting shuttle number one off us." They're both startled into pulling away, and in the space between them she remembers why she hadn't wanted this to happen. She backs away quickly and takes off at a near run.

It's the day after and Kaylee's still ashamed of herself for running. She's looking forward to being on land, though, and Mahaladu certainly looks nice. The air is crisp and vaguely applescented. Peeking out from behind Zoe's tall form, she sees a woman at a roadside stand selling cider.

As Kaylee drinks, Zoe assesses the surroundings. A small smile dances across her face. "Kaylee, this place looks safe enough. Be okay on your own?"

Kaylee nods, "Just point me in the direction o' the post point."

"The post point is on my way. I'll take you there," the first mate responds.

"Ah . . . ladies?" they both hear and spin around. It's Wash, wearing a shirt so bright it makes the eyes ache.

"Yes?" Zoe lifts an eyebrow.

"I, uh, need some advice," he begins. And stops. Zoe and Kaylee share a glance. He wishes they wouldn't do that. He takes a breath and tries again. "Mal asked me to try to line up a job for us." They both nod, Kaylee encouragingly, Zoe noncommittally. Again he lapses into an expectant silence.

"So what's the problem?" Zoe finally asks.

"I have no idea how to do this!" he says, surprised that she can't see his incompetence for herself, a little warmed by the faith she evidently had in him. Or maybe he's reading too much into it. She's so efficient herself it probably doesn't occur to her that doing her job gives him the willies. He's happy up in space, just him and the stars. The day-to-day stuff, being the brains behind their subsistence life, would overwhelm him.

"Jayne knows this world better than any of us. He'll show you the ropes," Zoe replies.

"Jayne's gone," he says, missing the way Kaylee goes still because he's only looking at Zoe, beautiful, deadly Zoe. "Captain says he was the first one out this morning. Don't know when he'll be back."

Zoe sighs, understanding the personal day she'd asked for isn't going to happen. She turns to the little mechanic. "Post point's a mile in that direction. On the south side of the central square. You can't miss it." Turning back to Wash, she offers, "I'll take you where you need to go."

"Great!" he smiles, starting towards her until he sees her hand come up in the "stop" position.

"But first, you've got to change that shirt," she says, and leads him back inside the ship. "And shave off that mustache."

Kaylee looks around her with amazement. She wasn't expecting this. The post point back on Rasam was a counter with Pop Hickson and his snail-slow machine on one side and a line a mile long on the other. This is a building full of gleaming self-serve computers. An officious voice calls, "Miss! Station 12 is open! Miss!" She scuttles over, and her heart sinks when she realizes this "Telefonix" is one machine she can't figure out. She turns to try to find that voice again, and she freezes when she sees that the man standing at station 11 is Jayne.

He's typing his message quickly, reading off a sheet of paper he's got propped up next to the screen. She's mesmerized, watching him, until he folds the piece of paper and tucks it into his pocket. He's about to leave and she has to say something. "Jayne?"

Her voice is small, but he hears it. His head pivots sharply. "What're you doin' here, girl?"

She's so relieved he's speaking to her that the words tumble out of her. "I'm trying to send a message to my Ma, send her some of the credits the cap'n gave me. But I don't know how this machine works. And she'll be frettin' over me." She looks up at him hopefully.

"Just give me a minute," he says, turning back to his station to attach credits to his message. His letter stays up on the screen for a moment, just long enough for her to read the beginning: *"Dear Mamma."* He clicks the screen to send, and the message scrolls quickly by. *"Love, Jayne"* she reads and the screen goes blank, ready for the next customer.

"Where's your ident?" he asks, and she fumbles for the card. He takes it, swipes it, then studies it. "Nice picture," he says, laughing softly as he hands it back. He reads the message on the screen, shifting so that she can see it too. "Says here you ain't got your card registered to send messages, but you can get around that." He taps a few keys and the screen flashes WELCOME. "Mind, that don't work on Core planets," he warns. He turns to go but she grabs at him. She begins to type hesitantly, knowing he can read everything over her shoulder. *"Dear Ma and Daddy and Linus and Allan and Rohan and Marcus"* she begins. "Holy hell," he mutters, "this is gonna take all day, innit?" She pokes him with one index finger and continues typing with the other.

Forty-five minutes later, she's finally finished. "Done now!" she says triumphantly, turning when there's no response.

Jayne's got his back to her, his eyes on a man holding an enormous gun straight out ahead of him. It's easy to see the man's a novice; he's gripping the weapon much too tightly, and Jayne figures one shot ought to do it. "Hey, boy" he calls, and the man spins fearfully over to him. "I've got a gun too you know," he taunts, draws Meena, and begins to move forward, ever so slowly.

"Stop right there!" the man yells, his voice cracking mid-command.

"Why? Looks like that toy you got ain't even loaded."

"It's loaded!" the man screams.

"Then why didn't ya shoot out the security scanner?" Jayne's voice drips with sarcasm. The man turns and aims high for the scanner. The recoil from the missed shot lands him flat on his back, his arm throbbing, the gun inches from his outstretched hand. Jayne reaches him in one long step, flips Meena in his hand, and clubs the man once with the butt of the gun. He's unconscious when Jayne kicks his weapon away.

He turns back to Kaylee to find her watching him with her mouth hanging open. He shuts it, pushes her aside, attaches her credits, and sends the message. Before the screen can even fade to black he's got her hand in his and they're walking out of the post point. They're out on the street before he puts Meena back in her holster. He glances again at Kaylee, who's still looking at him wonderingly. "Boy was just whoo dahn," he says brusquely, walking her back to the ship.

Zoe can't believe her eyes. The closet in Wash's bunk is open, and it's appallingly clear that the man cannot dress to save his life. All she sees is violently patterned fabric, in hues guaranteed to make the eyes bleed. She looks over at him silently. It's not as if he's some mouse of a man who'll never be noticed; that shock of bright hair, the easy way he walks, the breadth of his shoulders are all worth looking twice at.

He's still rummaging, evidently in the hopes that someone slipped something sober onto his shelf. "Aha!" he calls, enthusiasm undimmed. "How about this?" he smiles triumphantly, holding out a wondrously ugly shirt, light blue with heavy orange circles.

"No," she says, casting about for a suitable pair of pants, giving up after a minute. "I need to talk to the captain. I'll be right back." She exits quickly, looking for Mal.

She finds him sitting in one of the unoccupied bunks with his eyes closed. "Sir, why is the person who always looks like he's just walked away from an explosion in a pigment factory the one handling undercover work for us?"

He's tickled by her description of Wash, and the amusement is evident in his voice, "Cause we don't need it." His eyes are still closed, but he knows that one of her eyebrows has gone up. "You and Jayne and me . . . we all needed a little time away," he clarifies, "and I thought the time had come to see how Wash handles himself in these situations. For future reference. Course, this is a no-pressure situation, so it ain't exactly a proper test, but if he can do it today, I think he'll be able to pull it off later. Pilots are used to pressure."

She nods grudgingly. "I've agreed to take him around," she says.

"Oh, Zoe," he says, covering his face wearily with his hands, feeling a little guilty, "you don't have to . . . I'll do it. I know you don't favor him much."

"No," she admits, "I don't. But maybe he'll grow on me. And you could use the rest, Sir."

He smiles and says, "You might get a little extra if you help him land some work today."

His eyes slide open just in time to see a wicked grin flash across her face. "Oh no, Sir. My reward will be seeing the look on your face when I tell you he's going to have to borrow your clothes."

Mal feels the smile creep across his face, and it warms and worries him at the same time. Ain't often that a plum job lands in their laps, but Zoe had come back to the ship and said firmly, "We found a job. Legal." She said "we" and her eyes politely gestured towards Wash, but Mal had a hunch that the pilot had had nothing to do with the bargaining. And it sure as hell ain't often that a man gets a meal this fine on board a little ship. Zoe had thought to bring some of the spicy food Mahaladu was known for back on board. It's odd for him to feel so content, but with his belly full and happy faces around the table and Serenity floating sweetly through space, he's hard-pressed to feel anything but.

"Whatcha smilin' for, Cap'n?" Kaylee asks. He tunes back into the conversation. "Oh, I'm just thinkin' 'bout the run of good luck we've been having. Been going on for little more'n a week." He cocks his head to the side, pretending to study her. "'Bout the same time you joined, isn't it? I'm thinking young Kaylee here's our good luck charm." He turns to Wash and Zoe as he says this last, and raises his glass.

Kaylee beams at him and covers his hand with hers. She stands and asks, "Anybody want any more to eat?" At their negative responses, she starts scooping up the leftovers.

"Still hungry, Kaylee?" Mal asks, eyeing the full plate.

"No, Cap'n, I'm fixin' a plate for Jayne. He shouldn't miss out on this treat just cause he's got to keep an eye on the radar."

He smiles up at her, pleased at how well she's fit into this family he's tried to form, admiring the care she's willing to show even for a hardass like Jayne. "Well, slow down, there, girl. He's not a growing boy anymore. He's big enough already."

She smiles, thinking of the way he'd hidden her from the gunman's view with his large frame even while he'd kept him from killing anyone else. "Yeah. He's big enough to save us all."

Mal catches Zoe's eye at this and he lets out a bark of laughter. "Jayne as savior of the worlds! Kind of hard to picture Jayne savin' instead of killin' -" He stops abruptly as she drops the serving spoon back in the largest pot, splattering him with rust-colored sauce. "Kaylee?" he says, his hand on her elbow. She's twisted away from him and he can't get her to meet his eye. "What's the matter?" he asks.

"He ain't just a killer," she says, her eyes down.

"No," he flounders, "he's not." He needs help here, but Zoe is as much at a loss as he is. "He's a tracker, and a hunter, and a fine cook, and an awfully enthusiastic hoopball player, and . . ."

She cuts him off: "You don't think well enough of him, Sir." She picks up the plate and turns on her heel.

"Xiao mei-mei!" he stands and calls after her. "I'm sorry. I thought you were just kidding around."

She softens a bit at the term of endearment. She sets the plate back down and tells them what happened at the post point.

Kaylee's gone to deliver the food, and the captain is in his room, trying to figure the best way to organize the new job, so Wash is at last alone with Zoe. It's not her turn to clean up, but since she copped out on the cooking she figures she should do something productive.

She's barely aware of Wash sitting at the table; she's thinking through what the little mechanic said as she soaps up the dishes. It's not hard to believe the worst of Jayne. It's probably not hard to believe the worst of her, either. The war left her with a conscience stained through.

Her thoughts are in turmoil, but she's characteristically neat-handed as she works. Wash watches her, thinking there's a strange allure to a woman with this little fuss about her. He clears his throat softly, but she doesn't hear it over the running water and the voices in her head. "That was some meal, huh?" he tries again.

"Glad you liked it. The spices can be a bit much for some," she responds, turning to him as she finishes, drying her hands on a threadbare towel.

"No, I meant after . . . with Kaylee's story. But the food was good too," he hastens to add. She nods. "Why . . . I mean, if you and Mal think of him just as a killer, then what's he doing on this boat?" he asks.

"Jayne tracked us. Mal and me. Not only that, he got the drop on us. We hadn't been overly careful of our trail, but we hadn't exactly been laying out a path of little white stones either. Captain figured anyone who could track us, we wanted on our side. Plus, it made him not shoot us."

"Okay. But that was months ago. Why is he still here?"

"Don't rightly know." She pauses for a long minute. "Captain's pretty good at reading people. He thought Jayne was just another mercenary, he'd've gotten rid of him awhile back."

They're dancing so close to the topic he wants to address that Wash can feel his heart pounding excitedly. "And me?" he asks. "Captain think good things about me?"

She's surprised enough to answer him honestly. "Yes. More than I did."

That's not exactly the response he was hoping for, but in light of recent events he lets it slide. "But you like me now, right?" he says, starting to grin. She nods slightly as he keeps talking. His face is engagingly open; the mustache made a big difference. "I like you too, Zoe. I more than like you." He stands up, takes her hand, and presses a kiss on her wrist, still warm from the hot water.

She pulls away, startled by the direction this is going. "I like you," she says evenly; "I thought we had a nice day today. But that's as far as it goes."

"What?"

"There's nothing more there," she repeats.

His mouth is off and running before his brain can catch it. "Then why were you flirting with me yesterday?"

She's shocked into stillness. Flirting! She hasn't flirted with anyone, been easy and free enough to flirt, since before the war made a mess of her life, took away a woman and put a soldier in her place. She finds she's holding onto the back of Mal's chair to keep her hands from shaking. She says as steadily as she can, "I was not flirting with you yesterday. I have never flirted with you. I have no idea what you are talking about."

"The infirmary," he reminds her, upset that she's backtracking now, denying what was plain as day before. "You had my hand in your lap, remember? You were singing me a love song, remember? Any of this coming back to you?" He knows his anger will only push her away, but he's too hurt to care.

"I . . ." she falters, unable to think of a tactful way to point out what is obvious to her, "I had your hand on my lap because I was trying to splint your fingers. It's the most convenient position."

He crosses his arms tightly across his chest and nods like he doesn't believe a word she's saying. "And the love song?" he challenges.

"I didn't even realize I was humming yesterday. It's something I used to do during the war, whenever I was bandaging injuries. Keeps me and the soldier I'm tending a little calmer. Captain used to joke the men were getting injured on purpose just to have someone sing to them. Only logical explanation for why so many of our side were getting hurt." She pauses again. She doesn't want everything to be about the war. She shakes her head as if to clear it. "I must just have had that song in my head yesterday."

"Don't you think that means something?" he asks, his voice softening, taking her hand again.

"No," she says with finality, pulling free and walking away.

Jayne is considering the new mechanic as he does pull-ups from a length of braided leather he's shimmied through the ceiling grate. At first glance, he'd thought that she was a nice piece of tail, and was considering making his way off the ship on the chance he'd meet another cute Rasam girl. Then she'd seen him. And by the way she'd looked at him, he'd known that Bester had gotten himself a feisty one. He'd reconsidered then, thinking maybe the thing to do was not look for another girl, but take this one from Bester. He could see by her eyes she was willing. But then she'd smiled at him.

When he'd first been hired onto Serenity, he couldn't quite believe his luck. Ten percent, his own bunk, and the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen on board. After a few weeks of watching her, though, he'd lost interest. Her eyes were always heavy-lidded like she'd just fucked, but the expression on her face never changed. Even when she laughed at one of the captain's jokes, he could sense that there was something inside of her that stayed hard, hurt, hot. There was a trapped animal within Zoe, and it was something he had no desire to tangle with.

But Kaylee's different; her face is a kaleidoscope. She's not beautiful, but she's always on the verge of being so, and he's been the sole witness to a few of the moments when it had been achieved. The first smile she'd given him, heedless of Bester's presence, lit up her face with delight. He'd shied away that time, unprepared for the sudden glow about her. The tender look she'd worn when she stretched her fingertips out to tend his wounds transformed her, so that the grease that smeared her skin looked like God's fingerprints. And that time he'd made a move, leaning in towards her brightness, and she'd been the one to run.

There's a sound behind him, and he drops down, sweating, and turns in time to see her walking in with a plate piled high with food.

"Hungry?" she asks with an odd smile.

"Nope."

That's all she needs. She sets the plate down carelessly and takes his face in her hands, drawing him down for a kiss.

Her mouth is open, her little tongue hotter than hell, and Jayne scoops her up so that he doesn't have to bend down quite so far. Her legs slide around his waist easily, and one arm curls around his neck to keep him close. His arms, still burning from exercise, begin to give, and he doesn't think he could manage to locate a chair. He presses her up against a wall instead, and her hands, no longer needed for balance, are immediately everywhere, holding his face, slipping under the neckline of his olive green shirt, like she can't get enough of him. His left hand slides up from beneath her to tangle in her hair and cradle her skull, keeping it from pressing against the cold metal wall. She's lost track of time, reveling in the sensations of being held aloft by those flexed arms, being pressed flush against that strong chest, of being teased by that talented tongue. She's getting light-headed, and she pushes him back a bit so she can catch her breath. He's panting too and she's getting the shivers watching him try to control himself even as the heat of his body is pressed right up between her legs. He's ducking slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of her face, when there's a sound from the control panel. He slides her through his hands to let her down before turning to look at the radar.

"Somethin's gettin' close," he mutters. She turns to the com, but Wash strides in, cutting her off. Jayne looks up at the angry sound of his boots and taps the radar screen.

The pilot recognizes the code the ship is sending out and says, "Don't worry. Just someone else asking for directions." Kaylee sighs in relief. "Jayne," Wash continues in that clipped tone, "thanks for staying up here. I got it now." He notices the plate of food. "Go, eat your dinner in peace."

Jayne grins and grabs the plate with one hand, pulls the leather strip free with the other, and says, "I'll be in my bunk." Wash nods distractedly, not noticing Kaylee slipping out to follow Jayne.

She runs smack into him just outside the door, and he takes advantage of her surprise to push her against the wall with his hips and kiss her again. She breaks free after a moment, looks up at him, then bolts in the direction of his bunk, giggling. He knows he's grinning like a crazy fool as he goes after her. When he finally makes it to his quarters, it feels like he's been kicked in the gut. Kaylee's standing there in a white tank top, purple panties, and a smile. She points to his chest. He twists just enough to deposit the plate on the dresser behind him without breaking eye contact, then obliges her by pulling his shirt off. He grins wolfishly and points to her top and then to her underwear. She pretends to be taken aback, but strips as he pulls off his shoes, socks, and pants. He's advancing toward her when she shakes back her hair, hands on her hips, and looks pointedly at his boxers. "Right," he growls, pulling them off and throwing them carelessly behind him. He reaches one arm out to her waist and pulls her forward as he lets himself fall backward onto the bed.

She's all sunshine and delight, laughing and moaning in his arms. He likes the look on her face, somewhere between concentration and bliss, as she moves over him. He's got one hand cupping her head, and she likes the sensation that she's being cradled. Her head falls back in pleasure as the rhythm starts to get to her, and he takes that as an invitation to lean up and kiss roughly along her throat. His movement shifts the angle at which they meet, and her eyes, open all this time, grow even rounder. The size of his hands makes it feel like he's touching her everywhere at once and she's moved to kiss him once more. His beard is prickly against her, but his skin is smoother than she would have guessed. She's close now, and she slaps her palms against his as she pushes down harder. She finds her release only a moment before he finds his. She slumps forward for a moment before resting her chin on his scarred chest and smiling into his eyes. He reaches out a hand to toy with her hair, trying to buy some time. His face is not exactly an open book, but she knows what he's worrying over.

"Jayne," she says, leaning a little closer, seeing herself in his sharpshooter eyes, "I had fun. Din't you?"

"Yeah," he allows, waiting for the kicker.

She doesn't deliver it. "That's all it has to be. You, me, some fun."

"Helluva lot of fun," he corrects.

"I ain't expectin' you to buy me posies, or hold my hand during dinner. I just think we could have some good times together."

He can't believe he heard her correctly, but she's nodding to convince him, and he grins up at her. "Whatever you say, darlin' girl."

She relaxes and repeats her earlier question: "Hungry?"

This time, his answer is different: "Yep."

She turns her head to look at the dresser and her hair whispers against his nose. "Food's right there," she informs him, clearly waiting.

"You got to be on top. You get the food," he responds. She sighs and grabs the plate, then begins feeding him, sneaking every third bite for herself. He's got a shine in his eyes now, like he can't quite figure out how his life has gotten so good, and she kisses his cheek softly.

"Jayne? How old are you?" Mealtimes have always been a noisy time, full of discussion and argument, in her home.

"Thirty-seven. You?"

"Twenty-two. You the oldest?"

"Only child," he says shortly.

The food is gone, and she leans over to put the plate back on the dresser. Out of the corner of her eye she sees his pants, a folded piece of paper peeking out of the back pocket. "Jayne?" she asks, remembering the post point, "why ain't you with your Ma?"

He's not going to lie to her. "Weren't safe for her, havin' me around." He's not going to tell her the whole story either.

He thought his face clearly signaled the end of that discussion, so he's startled into stillness by her gathering him into her arms. She's afraid she's hurt him, and her fingers are tender as they smooth over his forehead, her lips are soft as she kisses away his crow's-feet. She holds him close to her breast and feels him relax slightly. "Sorry," she whispers, looking at him so sweetly that she glows into another moment of beauty. She pushes away a little and kisses down his chest.

* * *

[Roxiticus]

Jefferson Cobb is the meanest man on the planet, people say. Or at least that's their best guess. When a man's built the way the blacksmith is, better not to find out for sure what his personality's like, folks reckon. He's six foot three, brawny, with a grip that can break your hand. When he walks into the bar in Shey after delivering an order of horseshoes and spinningwheel parts, the noise flattens out. He takes his seat and waits for a girl to come by. The one who does is kinda pretty, pert nose, long black hair braided up, taller than average. She's calling an order over her shoulder as she approaches him. She turns to face him and he's lost forever, pulled in by the softness of her big brown eyes.

Sasha's not having an easy time of it, and Jefferson rides like the wind to fetch the doctor from his office in Shey. He's little more than a boy, and he blanches when Jeff demands help for his wife and firstborn. When they enter, Sasha is crying and sweating, hands clutching her belly. She knows something is wrong, and she prays the doctor can fix it. Her prayers are not answered. The doctor makes the wrong cut, and her eyes close in grief.

The second baby is lost in a late and bloody miscarriage. When she gets pregnant for the third time, Sasha seeks out a midwife. The woman listens to what the doctor did and shakes her head. She gives Sasha some herbs and promises to ease her delivery. The baby's a week past its due date, and Jefferson's away delivering goods to a buyer down the river, when Sasha feels the pain begin. The midwife, sleeping in the next room, hears her cries. When Jeff comes home his wife is looking at him over their son's head, her eyes luminous. "Jayne," she tells him exhaustedly and sinks into sleep, her baby clutched to her breast.

She's certain her child is extraordinary, if only for the way his little face lights up whenever she or Jeff is near. He crows with laughter when she cuddles him or when Jeff throws and catches him. He's four when he begins to follow Jeff to the smithy, seven when he gets his first gun. He's eight years old when he's able to hunt well enough to put supper on the table every night. He's twelve when his world changes.

Sasha looks at her son proudly as he stirs the stew. Only twelve and nearly as tall as Jeff, with the promise of his father's build already there in his slim height. She pulls out the pile of mending and has to light some candles to thread her needle. By the time she finishes the shirts, the stew is ready for extra spices, but Jefferson still hasn't come home. She sends Jayne to the forge and nearly upsets the stew when he runs back in, terror written clear across his face. Jeff is lying unconscious in the field, halfway between his workshop and his home; together, she and Jayne manage to pull him into the house. The doctor they bring in from Cho says something's eating Jeff from the inside, and there's nothing he can do.

The next three years are tough. Jeff is too strong to slip easily out of life, too weak to beat back the sickness inside. Most days, he can't even see her, just the pain. He can't work, can't hardly move, and she tends to him while she makes suppers to sell to the men who work along the river. And Jayne is the one on whom she depends, to find enough game to cook, to keep an arm around her as she cries, to give up on schooling and be the man of the house.

She wakes one morning to find her husband and son gone. She rushes out to the porch Jefferson built the year they were married and sees Jayne carrying his father back from the outhouse. He's taller than his father now, and as broad across the shoulders as Jeff once was. He looks older than fifteen. She stands out of the way to let them in the front door and pulls Jayne aside when he's set his father gently down. "The Mayday festival's comin'. Men down the river sent word they'd pay extra for deer instead of rabbit stew," she tells him.

He nods dubiously. "Take longer," he points out; "gotta go deep in the woods for deer."

"It's fine," she responds, gesturing to the large basket of mayflowers she'd gathered last night as Jayne fed his father, "they want wreaths for their sweethearts too. That'll take me most all day." He nods, stoops to kiss her cheek, and shoulders his gun; she watches him walk out into the sunlight. It's the day her world will be torn apart.

He's in the woods, setting his sights on a buck. He's already bagged a few rabbits, but this is the prize he's after. He hears a shot and a cry, and the buck is lost, bounding through the woods, white tail up in alarm. He traces the sound and sees a man with a pistol examining the man he's just killed. "Hey!" Jayne calls, and the killer flees. There's no point chasing after him now, when he's got work to do. He kills two deer and brings them home.

He's gutting the first when the sheriff approaches, the murderer at his side. "That's the man who killed Seth!" the killer declaims, pointing a clean hand at Jayne, up to his elbows in blood.

And suddenly there is fear, freezing him and slowing him down, so that he can't answer the sheriff's questions, only say, "No, it were him," over and over again. Sasha comes out of the house at the commotion in time to hear him say, "All I killed was these deer. And them rabbits," in a voice about to break with panic. He's looking at her, pleading with his eyes, but nothing she says keeps the sheriff from putting the heavy manacles Jeff made long ago around Jayne's wrists and leading him off to jail.

They tell him he'll have to spend the night there with the sheriff keeping an eye on him. He can't figure out what to say in response, so he says nothing. In the morning the sheriff leaves and his deputy takes over. He's a mean little man, full of the authority the star on his hat gives him. When Sasha comes in at a run, he takes his time looking her over. "He killed a man in cold blood," he declares, grinning insolently at her.

"No!" she protests. "He din't even know that man! He's just a boy!"

He sneers, "Biggest `boy' I ever seen. He's full-grown. Legal," he says, drawing out the last word as he pantomimes a noose with his hands.

She blanches. "Wuh de tyen ah! He's only fifteen," she cries; "look, I brought his birth-papers." She draws them out of her blouse and hands them to him, keeping her eyes on him and not on her baby boy; she needs to stay strong.

The deputy looks at the papers but his eyes don't move, and she realizes he can't read. He throws the papers on the desk. "Not good enough. But could be I could convince the sheriff to let your boy go," he says, and she knows what he's asking for. She bows her head like a lamb for the slaughter and tries not to flinch as his hand reaches for her.

"No!" Jayne screams from the cell, yelling so loud and for so long the noise reaches the bar next door where the sheriff is nursing his drink. The deputy can't shut him up from the other side of the bars, and he's not about to get into the cell with anybody Jayne's size.

As the sheriff storms in, Sasha scoops the birth-papers off the desk. She reaches into the cell and draws Jayne forward, holding his gaze. When the sheriff grabs her arm, she shows him the proof of her son's age. It's not enough to clear him, but it's enough to get him out of jail; no one wants to hang a fifteen-year-old boy.

Back home, he stays inside with his father, but it is Sasha who must face the people of Roxiticus, who spit on her, throw stones, and whisper that the food she's selling must be poisoned. There is no sign of it stopping. Three nights later, he leaves. He kisses her cheek just before he goes. She thinks it's part of her dream and brushes her hand across her face.

* * *

[Mahaladu]

Pacing. Pacing. It's been hours. Zoe's worked herself into a fine rage over the idiot pilot's comments about flirting. Next thing he would have said: "You were asking for it." She looks down to see her hands clenched in fists so tight it hurts when she starts to uncurl her fingers. No. Why not stay this way. Why not pound something. She wants to make contact with another body so badly. At least with Jayne, it won't be complicated.

She knocks once on his door and descends before he's given her permission. He's sitting with his back to her, a small folding table in front of him. He's cleaning a gun, and the scent of gun oil is almost his cologne. He's taking his time snapping the pieces back together, making sure he hears each click, wiping each part down with a rag. She recognizes the rag as the torn shirt he was wearing in the infirmary, and she finds it only too appropriate that he treats his guns and his body the same.

She's not getting any more patient, waiting for him, but she knows it would do her no good to interrupt. He puts the last piece in its place and asks, "Spar?"

"Yes."

"Guns?"

"No."

"Knives?" he offers, hanging Meena up, starting to reach for Raji.

"Skin." She turns and climbs out of his bunk with him right behind. They make their way to the space in the belly of the ship, cleared like a boxing ring. Without warning she kicks at his side, but he blocks with the heels of his hands. She throws a knockout punch. He catches it, twisting her fist in his palm, and tags her with his free hand. That he's honoring the rule of no hard contact while she is not is only enraging her further. While he's still got one hand closed around hers, she kicks upward viciously; knee or groin, either target will do, but the length of his arm allows him to skip nimbly back.

"Ruttin' hell, Zoe!" he snarls, "that ain't nice." He shoves her backwards. "The hell's the matter with you? Ain't never tried that chou ma niao before. And it ain't gonna do you any good now," he adds as she comes at him again. He knocks her flat and pins her quickly, trapping her legs with his thighs, pushing her biceps down with his big hands. "You'd be dead right now," he tells her. She's still clawing at him, and her nails reopen the wounds Kaylee had cleaned yesterday. He shifts his grip to her wrists as she struggles, her shirt riding up to leave a few inches of skin exposed. "Zoe!" he bellows, dropping his face down to hers, forcing her eyes to meet his. She goes still when the first drops of his blood hit her bared belly, and then the tension melts out of her. He shifts off her and watches her retreat inward, pull the wildcat back in by the tail. There's a diamond glint of a tear in her eye. He reaches out and swipes some of his blood off her with a callused finger. His thumb captures the tear the minute it hits her skin. She lies still under his clumsy ministrations. "Let me get Mal."

"No."

He can tell she means it. He shifts uncomfortably.

When she finally sits up, she scoots closer to him. She pulls off his shirt, and though he lifts his arms automatically to help, he doesn't know what is happening now. She wraps one warm hand around his middle and bends her head, examining his freely bleeding side. "Should cover that again," she says professionally, and he shrugs, understanding that she's back to being the unflappable first mate, the resident stoic.

That leaves him free to play toughest man in the 'verse. "Din't need to be babied last time," he growls. "Ain't happenin' again." He stands and reaches a hand down to her.

She surprises him all over again by taking it. "It's an order," she says, squeezing his hand gently as she brushes by him and heads for the shower.

She stands under the hot water and lets the sweat skim off her, lets Jayne's blood roll down into the drain. The water is pushing her, flattening her hair into a blanket so heavy she can hardly move her head. She scrubs it clean with gramme powder and twists it atop her head, allowing the spray to hit the nape of her neck. She rolls her shoulders and feels some pressure ease.

The flow of water doesn't sputter, but it loses its temperature steadily after a few minutes. It cools rapidly but she doesn't leave. In her mind, she's back on Veena, the year she turned sixteen.

* * *

[Veena]

Standing on a ledge sprayed by a cool waterfall, she is daring her brother to jump. Nikhil keeps questioning her as if her answers will shorten the distance to the lake below. "How old were you when you first did this?"

"Nine."

"And that scar on your head isn't from some rocks down there?"

"It's from the hiking accident. You know that. Don't be such a baby."

"And why did you jump from up here?"

"Anlee pushed me," she says, giving him a small shove that sends him over the edge. Her laughter drowns out his yells, and she screams exuberantly as she leaps after him.

Down in the lake, he's waiting to scowl and lecture her. "You're crazy, you know that?"

She grins unrepentantly. There are some things her baby brother would never do on his own; he just needs to be steered in the right direction. "Fun, huh?"

A reluctant smile inches across his face. "Yeah."

"Want to go again?"

He stares at her. "You are crazy." He turns toward the bank. "I'm going home."

"No, stay, Nik. We can -"

They're both startled by a splash a few feet away. Quan swims up to them. "Jumping?" he asks with an eager grin.

"She is. I'm going," Nikhil says as he heads for the bank. Once he's on land, he looks back at them and calls, "Hey, Quan! Zhu tamin ya min - she'll sneak up on you."

Zoe turns her most innocent face to Quan, trying to look appalled at her brother for making such a slanderous statement. "Don't even try it," he says; "I know you too well."

She shrugs as if she's given up. "Fine." She treads water, moving in a slow circle around him, her head just above the surface. "How's Anlee?" she asks quietly.

"Don't mention this to anyone. Not even Nik," he says seriously. He leans a little closer even though there's no one around to eavesdrop. "I saw her yesterday. She says she's doing real well, that Lok has a good job." He can't believe his family has been torn apart because of one piece of paper. "What does it matter that they're not married?" he shouts, forgetful of his earlier caution. She reaches out a hand to him, he calms as it rests on his upper arm. "Baby's cute, anyway. Just like his uncle," he grins. He shrugs her hand off. "Come on, race ya to the top." He swims swiftly to the shore and pulls himself onto land. He turns back to taunt her for being so slow but the triumph dies on his lips. She's emerging from the water, and he's shocked by how beautiful she is. He shakes his head.

"Water in your ears?" she laughs, coming up behind him, tapping a playful rhythm on his shoulder blades. "Come on, I thought we were racing." She speeds ahead, running easily up the grassy slope, darting nimbly among the rocks. Her every movement is grace, and he can't believe that he's never noticed before how her bronze skin glows, how her curls tighten when they're dripping wet, how her smile is dangerously alluring. She reaches the top and turns so fast he doesn't have time to hide the longing on his face. She goes still. She waits for him to reach her. And then she kisses him and it's soft and sweet and wet.

* * *

[Mahaladu]

Zoe is snapped out of her reverie by a pounding on the door. She can hear the concern in Kaylee's voice. "Zoe? Y'alright? Are ya hurt?"

"No, I'm good," she calls back, turning off the icy water and wrapping a towel around herself. She dries herself quickly and steps out into the hall to reassure the girl. "Just thinking, is all." She watches Kaylee head to the engine room and makes her way to her bunk. She pulls on some soft night clothes and lies down, trying to clear her mind. Don't, she warns herself, don't go any further. Just stop right there. Don't even think about what happened a few years later. It's too late, though; Wash's words have sent her reeling, and the control she found in Jayne's rough care is gone again. The memories are insistent.

* * *

[Veena]

She and Quan are dressing each other by the waterfall, their movements much more leisurely than their hasty disrobing had been. She's got her hands on his shoulders as she steps into the shorts he's holding ready for her. She lets her hands drift down a bit; she loves the smooth muscles of his back, tapering down to that trim waist. He pulls away to put his shirt on, but then steps back to her. She finds her sandals with her feet, unwilling to let go of his hands.

Nikhil finds them like that moments later. He rolls his eyes. "Are you guys flirting again?"

Flirting. It's a pretty word, but much too insubstantial for what's been going on. We've been loving, she wants to say, but she notices the look on her brother's face. "What?" she asks.

"Weren't you supposed to be doing the mending with Mam?"

"Tzao gao." She'd forgotten all about that when Quan had showed up with the sun behind him, tapping on her bedroom window. But Mam won't mind; she hates the mending too, the endless parade of bedlinens, and the beauty of the day probably beckoned her outside anyway. "I'm sure we'll take care of it tonight," she tells Nikhil, his face tight with anxiety for her.

"You're gonna get it this time," he warns. "Da's going to be mad."

"Trust me. Just follow my lead," she responds.

A familiar look, admiration mixed with resignation, is on his face. "Don't I always?" he asks. She gives him the last smile of her girlhood.

He turns to lead the way home, the fish he's caught waving like a banner from his hand. She and Quan follow hand in hand. Halfway home, she sees a gray uniform out of the corner of her eye. And then another. And another. The closer they get to their home, the more there are. And while the Alliance is a presence on this world, it's usually only a few silent, unobtrusive guards scattered across the landscape. Quan squeezes her hand and drops it, and takes the path that leads to his house, anxious for his parents, even more so for his sister who's out of his reach. Nikhil turns to exchange a serious look with her, knowing there's nothing to do but keep heading home. They push open the front door with an unaccustomed feeling of dread and see their father sitting opposite a row of Alliance officers.

She looks at her father's face and his eyes are completely blank. She swivels to face the uniformed men again and notices that one of them is holding something. "What is that?" she asks, her throat knotted. He says nothing but pulls the white cloth away too quickly for her to cover her eyes. It's the painting her mother has been working on. There is a long, angry streak running across it, and it takes her a minute to realize that it is her mother's blood. She sways a little on her feet, catching herself before any of these men can; she doesn't want them anywhere near her. This is what was happening while she was out with Quan, leaving her mother alone outside.

"Sergio Rahersi," the man in the middle of the cluster says formally, "you are bound by law to stand down. I arrest you in the name of the Alliance for the murder of one Annah Rahersi." And now she can't speak at all. They are taking her father away. It all happens too quickly to comprehend. She and Nikhil protest his innocence, but he is uninterested in defending himself. He is lost without his wife. The Alliance's speedy prosecution is made easier by his silence. Veena is a valuable playing-ground for the wealthy; they would not come if they suspected danger, a murderer lurking as they frolic, but a simple domestic crime among the staff is not their concern.

She leaves Nikhil at home when she walks to the main square for their father's execution by firing squad. She stands tall and looks at him straight on, but his eyes pass through her. She turns and leaves, the buzz of gossip ringing in her ears. All she sees as she walks away are the grey uniforms of the Alliance men as they stand in orderly rows.

She cannot distinguish the shots fired that day from the shots she hears now, worlds away, on the battlefield on Acheron. She crouches back down in the trench and eyes Nikhil. He has not spoken in the months since their father's death; whenever he's near a flat surface, his hand traces the design of their mother's last painting over it. She cannot think of how to bring him back. But that has to wait until she's delivered the mortal blow to the Alliance. She springs out of the trench, firing at the soldiers on the other side, feeling a sharp glee for each one who falls. She looks back at her brother and beckons him forward. He responds, obedient as a pet, eyes only on her. She sees the arc of the grenade as it lands in front of him, and then he's gone. She's sobbing as she sinks to her knees, heedless of the Alliance's retreat, of the Independents' forces gathering to regroup.

She's stroking his outflung arm, tears running down her face, unaware of anything but the texture of his rapidly cooling skin under her fingers. She stays like that until a firm hand on her shoulder pulls her back. She is enraged and her hand reaches instantly for a knife. The point is pressed to the man's throat, but he doesn't back away. "Let me help you bury him," he says, and all she can do is nod.

* * *

[Mahaladu]

Mal walks into the mess hall a little disoriented, feeling off-balance because he hasn't yet talked over the new job with Zoe, heard her low, logical voice flow in agreement with his. He sees Wash in one corner, trying to make himself unobtrusive behind a large and dusty book. Kaylee's there too, sitting silently as she forces down a bowl of protein mush; it always tastes worse after a night of proper food.

Zoe walks in, her heels ringing against the metal grating, an odd bulge in one of her pockets. She looks a little puffy-eyed, and he frowns, trying to work out what might have upset her. "Zoe," he greets her, waiting for a cue.

"Sir," she nods briskly back.

"Missed you last night. Thought we could talk over this job on Pixley," he says, still trying to ascertain the cause of her discomfort. "You get too busy?"

"I was . . ." she falters, never having had to account for herself to him before, "with . . ."

Jayne walks in at that moment with a gruff "Mornin'."

Mal catches the note of defiance in the folds of the mercenary's voice, sees the way he can't quite look straight at Zoe. He turns and finds his first mate looking unflinchingly at Jayne, an unreadable expression on her face. His confusion gives way abruptly to anger. If he's tried anything . . . He strides furiously over to Jayne, halting only when something large and bright flies right in front of his nose. Jayne catches it neatly and Mal looks down into the man's hand to see a blood orange. He looks up, confused again, and sees Zoe's face telling him in no uncertain terms to back off. He takes a step away from Jayne, his mind racing. That's got to be the last of Zoe's share of the fruit from the job before Rasam, the stuff she's been hoarding for well over a fortnight. And now she's tossed it to the mercenary, in part as a gift, and in part to keep him from confronting the bigger man. It's a mite unsettling how the women on this ship have been eager to feed and defend Jayne, he thinks, but if Zoe's got no quarrel with Jayne, then he doesn't either.

He clears his throat and gets on with the day's work. "Zoe, you and I will go find our client and bring the goods back to the ship." She looks up at him, eyes saying she's ready. "Wash," he says, "I want us ready to get to Pixley soon as Zoe and I get back. Map out a quick route that won't use more'n two-thirds of our fuel cells." He doesn't wait for acknowledgment before he turns to Kaylee. "Your turn to do the laundry. Best to get it done while we're on land and can fetch the extra water." She nods but by the way her gaze remains trained on his face, he can tell she has no idea what the chore involves. She's probably used to doing the wash by hand. "Jayne'll show you how the washer works," he reassures her, turning to Zoe once more, hitting the button to extend the docking ramp on their way out.

Wash uncurls from his seat in the corner, letting the mapbook fall heavily on the table. He's beyond surprised that Zoe didn't go running to Mal last night after their confrontation. They're closer than lovers, more interdependent than twins. He envies them that closeness. Or maybe it's just Mal he envies, knowing that Zoe's shining eyes will always turn to him first, that her voice will always second his, that she will always hold him back from whatever darkness he courts.

He sighs, rubbing tiredly at his cheeks, covered in stubble. No point in dwelling on Zoe now. He needs to get the ship ready to run. Pixley sounds like a nice place, a little out of the way but firmly in Alliance territory. It sounds kind of like Bolus, he thinks as he makes his way to the bridge.

* * *

[Bolus]

She's nervous as a bride when he comes in and she hurries to get a hot dinner in front of him. She isn't aware she's gripping her apron with tight fists until she sees him looking at them. She flushes and opens her mouth to speak. "Went to the doctor today."

He pauses, fork in mid-air, next bite ready. "Doctor?" he frowns.

"I'm pregnant." She says the words in a rush.

His face goes blank from shock, but then his eyes crinkle up in that way she loves. "Gorram! Esme, girl, here I was thinkin' you were just gettin' fat!" he laughs. He can't be serious for even a minute. Lord knows how he isn't giggling all day at court when he's defending his clients.

She's built on generous lines and she knows she isn't showing, but there's nothing wrong with a snappy retort. "When's the litter you're carrying due, then?" she asks, with a soft slap to his belly.

He guffaws and pulls her down to his lap, kissing the top of her head. Her hair smells like fresh bread. A sudden thought freezes him. "Esme, you ain't . . . too old for this?" The girls are fifteen, the second set of twins twelve. He's seen the births, knows it takes strength to push for so long.

"No, Father Time, I ain't too old," she tries to joke, but his arms tighten around her and she can't continue. "I'll be fine," she promises quietly.

He intends to hold her to her word. "When are these new brats due?" he sighs, playing weary.

She rolls her eyes at the melodrama. "Not brats. Brat. This time there's just one."

"Really?" he asks, surprised.

"Really. This one'll have no shadow." She knows already this child will be spoiled rotten. "He'll have to go it alone."

She repeals that declaration when they put her newborn child in her arms. He's got an absurdly endearing crest of reddish hair and his tiny fist clutches her forefinger with an iron grip, wiggling it around like a joystick. It's the first time she's been able to concentrate on the baby at her breast; with the twins, she was always worried about the child she wasn't feeding, the one out of the circle of her arms. The sensation of his steady sucking at her nipple is overwhelming, and she nuzzles the top of his head with her nose. This is the one she's never letting out of her sight.

* * *

[Mahaladu]

They didn't have to go far to draw water, but it was certainly a pain trying to bring it down to the laundry area without spilling it all over Serenity. Kaylee doesn't know how she'll be able to manage this chore in the future without help; she's too short to pour the water easily into the washing machine. But for now she's got Jayne, who empties their pails into the wringer while she gathers the clothes and sheets and towels from the big hamper. He helps her stuff them in, shows her how much cleansing powder the load needs, then leans nonchalantly against the large machine.

Her breath catches when she sees that he's wearing that smile. His right hand reaches out to undo the long row of hooks that runs down the center of her sleeveless top. "Jayne!" she protests, glancing nervously around the open space.

"Ain't nobody around but us," he reminds her, continuing swiftly with his task. He's about a third of the way down the row when she gets both hands on his right arm, pushing him so that her weight traps his arm and his back is pressed against the machine. It doesn't seem to disconcert him, and his left hand slips in and resumes the job. His fingers are deft despite their size and he lets the tips brush against the skin he's uncovering. She gasps. "What's the word? Learned it once. Oh, yeah," his palm flattens against her belly, "ambidextrous." The wicked grin on his face as he says the last word is too much for her and she shifts to press her bare breast into his hand.

His eyes darken and he lays her down without any ceremony. He's pulling at her shorts and she's fumbling for his zipper, and they're naked within moments. She's got her hands on the shifting planes of his broad back, pulling him tightly to her, but it's his turn to be on top, to set the pace. He's going slow and deliberate, just to torture her, just to make her plead, "Jayne!" She licks at the side of his face where she thought she saw something like a dimple when he grinned at her. His thrusts become stronger, more insistent, and she's moaning sweetly, almost in time to the rhythm of the machine rocking above them. "Jayne," she breathes. "Jayne."

* * *

[Pixley]

They've been flying for three days, and Wash is tired. He's glad to be able to get on the com and say "Pixley's within sight. We can land in an hour."

The whole crew assembles on the bridge, peering at the planet while Mal gives orders. He plucks playfully at Kaylee's lopsided ponytail. "You've got a shopping list to make, young lady." He elaborates when she frowns her confusion. "Pixley's s'posed to have one of the better junkyards in this corner of the 'verse, least that's what our client on Mahaladu said. Good man, Linden." Now she's looking a little dazed, so to hurry her along, he swats her bottom lightly. "Hop to it, mei-mei. Half the credits from Mahaladu for engine parts." She squeaks her delight and runs along to coo over the engine, figure out what exactly Serenity needs.

He closes the door behind her, wanting her out of earshot before he discusses the Pixley job. "Zoe," he says, turning to her, "you remember what Linden said about women not bein' welcome to do official business on Pixley? That means the buyers don't see you. You'll be off keepin' an eye on Kaylee." He stops her before she has a chance to protest. "Let's call it girls' day out, alright?" He knows she'd rather be skulking around with a rifle, watching his back, but he can't risk the deal. "And no guns; they're illegal on Pixley. Knives only," he says, nodding at Jayne, making sure he gets the message to leave Vera, Meena, and their sisters in his bunk. "Wash," he turns to the pilot, "we'll land and Jayne and I will locate the buyers. We'll bring 'em back to the ship and you'll let down the ramp and bring down the goods. That's all. Easy as . . . somethin'. Everyone good?"

Kaylee's making her list when she sees Jayne, shirt in hand, walk by the engine room's open door. "Hey," she calls, part playful, part seductive as her eyes follow the line of hair that runs down his flat stomach, "come here, big man."

He grins at the appellation but he's shaking his head. "Cain't. Gotta get ready for the job." He keeps walking towards his bunk, and he pulls a well-worn Blue Sun shirt out of a drawer. It's a little loose on him, and it won't reveal all of the weapons strapped to his body. He pulls tight black bands high on each arm, sheathing small throwing knives there. Larger knives are placed at the front of his waistband and at the small of his back. Nelle is tucked into his left boot, and he wears Raji boldly on his hip. Job's perfectly legal, but that's no reason to go in unarmed.

He reports back to Mal for final instructions. "What's the cargo?" he thinks to ask.

"Spices and all kinds of dried food. Mayor of Pixville's gettin' married, wants a proper feast for the shindig. And willin' to pay mighty good coin."

"What's all that?" he points to a slim flat package lying on top of the captain's coat.

Mal smiles and picks up the packet. "If you can believe it, it's official paperwork declaring our goods legal. And taxable." Neither one of them has seen an official Alliance goods seal that's not a forgery and they laugh nervously over it, running surprised fingers over its embossed richness, as Serenity begins her descent.

Kaylee, her list, Zoe, and the credits the captain promised are all on their way to the junkyard as Mal and Jayne walk down the main street of Pixville towards the mayor's mansion. They stop when they hear a voice close by ask, "Captain Reynolds?" They pivot as one, and Jayne automatically drops a step behind as Mal locates the speaker and answers, "That's the name I answer to."

The man smiles charmingly. "I'm Mayor Jenkiss. Welcome to Pixville. Have you got my goods?"

There's something a little odd about his eagerness, and Mal smiles back, equally charming. "If you've got my coin."

"Good fellow! Lead on, Captain," Jenkiss says, as one of the many men behind him holds up a small sack and shakes it to make the currency jingle. He keeps up a steady stream of commentary as they head to the Argent Docks. "Oh, look at that ship! Quite nice, quite nice. If yours is anything like that, Captain," he nudges Mal jovially, "you're sitting pretty."

"Serenity's a firefly," Mal answers shortly. He's not used to prattle, and he's thinking maybe legal jobs aren't the way to go after all.

"Oh, a firefly! Delightful, delightful!" Mal's never met someone so in love with the sound of his own voice. Jayne's sour face says he agrees.

"Here we are." He sees Jenkiss open his mouth to say something, so he keeps talking. "By the way, I never congratulated you, Mayor, on your marriage. All the best to you and the future Mrs. Jenkiss. Hear tell she's quite a looker." He's lying through his teeth; Linden had said the woman had a face marked by inbreeding but the credits to cancel that out.

"She's well enough," Jenkiss answers. "How about you gents?" There's an unsettling look in his eyes. "Any ladies on board?"

Mal pats the exterior of his ship in a swift rhythm. "Nah. Serenity here's the only girl I need," he responds, thankful that Kaylee and Zoe are not on board. Wash hears the signal and opens the main hatch and lets the docking ramp descend. "You can see your cargo, Mayor, right there," Mal continues with a broad gesture. He pulls the papers from his coat pocket. "Just sign there and I'll have our pilot bring it down."

At Jenkiss's nod, one of his men hands the coin pouch over to Mal, another produces the official signet ring, and a third moves forward with a hot wax dispenser. Jenkiss presses the ring to the small puddle of wax and gestures for Wash to bring the first of the crates down. "Have you no one else to help him, Captain?"

"No rush, is there?" Mal smiles, but Jenkiss understands that there's no one else on board.

It's clearly the cue he's been waiting for as he shakes a small knife down his long, flowing sleeve and plunges it high into Mal's left arm.

"It's a tough decision," Kaylee says, gnawing her lower lip worriedly.

"You can make it. Fact, you're the only one who can," Zoe reminds her. "No one else can tell which one of these parts is most likely to need replacing but you."

"Okay. Let's take these then . . . but we'll leave that one till the cap'n's in a good mood from gettin' paid again."

"Good plan," Zoe nods approvingly.

The parts are well wrapped, making several neat bundles that can be carried easily under the arm. They walk along in a comfortable silence. Kaylee brightens when she sees the familiar silhouette of Serenity, small and stark black against the dusky sky. She looks happily at Zoe, and says, "She looks right pretty there, don't she?" Zoe smiles in response, leading the way back to the ship.

Jayne moves faster than thought, snapping the neck of the man who scooped up the money sack Mal dropped when he was stabbed. He's got Raji in his hand, ready to plunge into Jenkiss's heart, when one of the gang throws a knife that buries itself in his shoulder. He loses his grip on Raji, but catches her with his other hand and slashes the nearest man across the chest.

Jenkiss shouts, "Come on, boys! Kill the big one! We can take the ship!" and starts toward the docking ramp. Mal manages to trip him and one of his men, and flings his blade into the follower's heart. Jenkiss is too quick to be killed though, and is up again in an instant, knife in hand. "You're a lot harder to kill than the mayor of this gorram backwater and his ugly bride-tobe were," he grunts as he faces Mal. Mal's hands are wrapped around Jenkiss's wrist as the knife comes closer and closer.

Jayne has a knife in each hand, and his arms and chest are covered in bloody slashes from the weapons the bandits have been throwing, which lie scattered around him. Each time he gets a bandit within arm's reach, though, he's able to thrust with enough force to spill the man's lifeblood on the dirt of Pixley. He wonders how much longer his strength will last.

Jenkiss pushes against the knife embedded in Mal's arm with his free hand, shaking Mal's grip on the knife poised at his face. Mal howls as the blade rips through his skin; a thin and bloody river, from the edge of his eyebrow to the bottom of his ear, appears on the map of his face. His empty hand closes around Jenkiss's neck.

Jenkiss's men are not happy. The big one is not going down, apparently not weakening at all. The only knives they've got left aren't balanced for throwing; they're meant for close combat, but no one wants to challenge the mercenary and his formidable wingspan. They can't edge past him, and the pilot has dropped the cargo in order to carry a very large gun and hold Serenity. "Not worth it," one of them mutters, and soon it's their chorus as they retreat.

Mal sees Jayne approach and removes his hand from Jenkiss's neck, pushing him roughly away. Jenkiss, caught off balance, lands hard on his backside. In a single fluid move, Jayne drops to one knee and slices Raji across Jenkiss's throat so savagely that the blood spurts out in a heavy spray, underlining the words "Blue Sun" on his shirt. He looks over at Mal to judge the shape he's in and sees Zoe heading over to the captain and Kaylee staring at him with horror on her face, carefully wrapped engine parts falling from her nerveless fingers to lie among the scattered bodies of the men he's killed.

Zoe's just gotten an arm around Mal as he stumbles backwards when she hears a crash. She looks over to see Kaylee's empty hands shaking and the packages lying at her feet, metal peering out from the cloth wrapping. Girl's lucky she didn't slice off a toe with that trick. She should get inside. "Kaylee," Zoe calls, "can you get the captain into the infirmary?" She waits until Kaylee has looped Mal's arm over her shoulder before she turns to Jayne. The mercenary is covered in blood, and his breathing is a little hitched, but he's looking into her eyes steadily. He stoops suddenly to pick up Nelle and she asks, "They get away without paying?"

"Naw," he grinds out; the quick movement was not a good idea for someone getting lightheaded from blood loss. She can see he's about to drop, so she does it herself, turning over the slashed corpses with the toe of her boot, nudging them aside until she gets to the bottom of the pile. She turns over the last one and finds his hands still clutching the money pouch. She's surprised to see that there's not a drop of blood on the bag when she plucks it from his grasp, and she quirks an eyebrow at Jayne. He knows what she's thinking and he answers, "Broke his neck." She nods at his pragmatism and turns toward the ship. She looks at him again when he doesn't move. She's about to reach out to him when she realizes he's so used to doing the final sweep, to being the last one to board, that he's waiting for her to go ahead of him. She runs swiftly up the ramp and hears his heavy steps behind her. She knows he'll follow, so she heads for the infirmary.

"Seal her up tight," she can hear Mal bellow to Wash, "and get us off this planet." The next world over is easily half a day's journey, and the sky is clear of other ships, so Wash simply takes off and lets Serenity fly. He checks the control panel once more and then hurries back to the infirmary. He nearly collides with Zoe, anxious to tend to Mal; she shoves something into his hands and he looks down to see the coin pouch.

She's already pulling the alcohol and gauze out of the cabinets when she looks the captain full in the face. She bites her lip and gets out the needle and thread. "We've still got the goods, and we've got their money," he announces to the group gathered around as she reaches for him.

"Shh," she says, beginning to swab the long, grim line that splits his face.

"We need to figure where we can sell some of this cargo," he continues from his perch on one of the beds.

"I can make you shut up, Sir," she tells him, and he buttons his lip obediently. She's cleaning the cut as best she can, but he's starting to sway a little, and some of the alcohol is dangerously close to getting in his eye. She gives up on that for the moment and unbuttons his shirt. He looks at her with mock malevolence as she peels it off, and hisses a bit. "Shh," she soothes again, her voice slipping easily into a low melody. He recognizes after a moment that she's humming one of the tunes that kept them sane in the trenches, a bawdy drinking song. He smiles, remembering that she was the only one who knew every verse. He sings along softly, his head back against the wall, groaning when she cleans the stab wound in his upper arm. It's deep but not jagged, and she wraps it quickly in a tight bandage. She turns her attention back to the cut on his face. He tries to help by leaning forward, but his head is lolling like a heavy blossom on a slender stem. She needs him still if she's going to sew him up. She gets up on the bed and pulls him into the light. She's got a good grip on his thick hair as she cleans the cut again, but he can't keep from moving a little. She sighs and pulls his head onto her chest, looping her left arm tight around his neck. She swabs him one last time, then slides the needle steadily into his skin.

The alcohol and the needle burn, but it's been some time since he felt this comfortable. Zoe's scarlet shirt is soft under his cheek, and her heartbeat is about to lull him to sleep in her arms. He remembers the last time she held him like this; his scalp was stinging from a medicinal wash as she was raking through his hair with a fine-toothed comb, looking for lice. Makes no sense that trenches worlds away from earth-that-was should have lice, but they did. He remembers having to paw through the short mass of curls on her head when she was done with him. There's nothing he wouldn't do for her.

She feels him sink heavily into her and she's amazed that he can succumb to sleep when she's got an inch and a half of metal piercing his face, but it does make her task easier. She finishes and lays him down full-length on the bed, turning to the patient on the other bed. She's surprised neither Wash nor Kaylee has thought to at least clean Jayne off. She gets a bowl of warm water and a rag and approaches him. He's sitting mostly upright, but his eyes are unfocused, and she needs to strip him to determine how much of the blood that's covering him is actually his. She starts with his face. She wipes the grime and blood gently off with the wet rag, and she sees that his skin has gone grey. She drops the cloth and cuts his shirt off with the knife he's got lying on his lap. The broad expanse of his chest is a raw and bloody mess, and around several of the wounds the skin is puckered angrily. He slumps forward and she throws the knife to the side so that she can catch him. He catches himself when the knife rings loudly against the stainless steel bowl, and collapses against the wall at his back.

She's startled by Mal's long string of curses behind her; she hadn't realized the crash had woken him. She turns to consult him, only to find him looking tearfully at Jayne like a long-lost lover. "Kaylee," she says, pleased that the girl hasn't screamed or fainted, "go through these drawers and see if you can find a small orange tin. Round. Size of your palm. And Wash, come help me lay him down." She leaves Wash to unlace and pull off Jayne's boots while she gets up on the bed, sliding her arm around Jayne's shoulders, letting his head lean against her collarbone. He's groaning in pain and shifting restlessly; he's close to kicking Wash in the face more than a few times, but he quiets down when she pulls him close and hums softly, just enough for him to feel the vibration. Kaylee appears next to her, holding out the tin, her eyes fixed on Jayne's chest with a horrified fascination. Wash finally swings Jayne's legs up onto the bed, and she shifts so that the back of his head is lying on her chest. She washes out the wounds as best she can and starts applying the medicine, trying to pinpoint exactly which poison must have been on the bandits' blades. The harsh odor of the ointment is making her eyes water, and Jayne starts to choke. She pushes him upright as quickly as she can, seeing hazily through her tears Mal bounding across the infirmary to steady him. Wash, suddenly, is next to her, his arms filled with pillows. While Mal holds Jayne up, she slides off the bed and puts the pillows in her place; together, the three of them gingerly lay Jayne back down. She finishes as quickly as she can, covering all of the wounds with the cream and then with gauze. He's fighting for consciousness through the whole thing, so she hums melody after melody to give him a lifeline.

When she's finally done, Mal mutters, "Wash. Get up on the bridge and make sure we're headed someplace decent. Kaylee, you best get going too." He stands at Jayne's side and, along with Zoe, watches the mercenary at last sink into unconsciousness.

She can't stand seeing her captain look so lost. "Sir," she says, waiting until he drags his eyes from Jayne to meet hers, "we need to figure out what happened."

He knows she's right. "What happened is a bunch of whoo dahn bandits with a shiong-muh duh kuang-ren for a leader murdered the mayor and his bride-to-be and tried to make it a clean sweep by takin' out Jayne and me."

He stops, but she knows that's not all. "Are you sure he wanted to kill you, Sir?" she asks. "'Cause a wound in the arm and one on the face aren't fatal."

It's a good point, and he stops to consider. "Well, he said something about me bein' hard to kill, but he might have meant to keep me alive to take the fall for killing the mayor. But sure as certain he meant to get rid of Jayne. He told his men to `kill the big one.'"

She follows his gaze back down to Jayne's recumbent form. "What else, Sir?" she asks, turning to face him squarely, her voice as detached as she can make it.

"They were gonna take Serenity," he confesses, his voice so low she has to lean in close to hear him.

She steps forward a bit until his eyes are locked on hers. "They didn't get her, Captain. She's still yours." He nods and watches her remove Jayne's belt and cover him with a light blanket. "Both of you need your rest," she says, nudging him back to the opposite bed. She turns out the lights as she leaves the infirmary.

Zoe nearly knocks over Kaylee, lurking just outside the infirmary doors. "What are you doing here?" she asks, surprised that the girl would disobey a direct order from Mal.

"The engine parts," she stammers, "they're still in there. I didn't want to interrupt." She's wringing her hands, and there are tears on her cheeks.

Zoe remembers that the girl has in all likelihood never seen so much blood before. "Kaylee, you don't have to go in there. I'll get the parts." She turns but sees the mechanic's hand shaking as she tries to steady herself against the wall. She thinks maybe Kaylee hasn't stopped trembling since she saw the evidence of the massacre back on Pixley. She reaches out and cups her chin, but Kaylee's eyes are still fixed on the infirmary doors. "Kaylee," she tries. She moves so that she's in the girl's line of sight and the mechanic seems to come to herself.

"There was so much blood," she moans. "Did he do all of that?"

"Jayne and the captain both," Zoe answers. "It was self-defense," she says, thankful that she's able to say so truthfully; she's done plenty of killing herself that she couldn't so easily justify.

But it's not enough to comfort Kaylee, who continues rocking from side to side like a beaten animal. "Self-defense? How . . . how could he have the strength if there were so many of them?" she whispers, sounding ever more lost.

"We saw him save the captain's life," Zoe says, trying to remind the girl of the end since she evidently can't justify the means in a way that will mean anything to Kaylee. But it means something to her, and, she's sure, to Jayne as well; it's hard to sit still when you've killed someone before knowing he was out to get you too. "I'll get the parts," she says as she turns back to the infirmary.

Kaylee climbs into her hammock, nearly upending it when she can't control her trembling limbs. She's safe here in the engine room, her queendom. No one around to insist that she realize that the eyes that so often gazed at her could coolly look at a man and judge how best to end his life, that the hands that have been all over and in her are instruments of death. She's shuddering more violently now, not quite crying, as she remembers the angle of Jayne's knife, the brightness of the blade, the sweeping motion of his powerfully muscled arm. She dreams it again and again until he's bending over her and the knife begins its dark descent, slashing across her own throat.

Everything is different when Jayne finally wakes up. He wishes the light overhead were a bit brighter, as the skin on his chest feels uncomfortably taut, and he needs to see the damage those bastards wrought. He blinks and then realizes that the light isn't dim; it's just that Zoe's standing next to his bed, her head shielding his eyes from the light. She opens her mouth but doesn't say anything, and he's surprised to discover he understands her silence. Her eyes are offering him an apology; she wants him to forgive her for tending Mal first. He knows quite well that in healing the captain first, she was really ensuring the survival of two: Mal and herself. And selfpreservation is an instinct he's well acquainted with. He nods as best he can while still lying down and she relaxes. He motions a bit with his chin and she moves to help him sit up. It's worse that way; his skin pulls even tighter and it hurts to breathe. He slides back down and looks at his chest. "Hell, Zoe," he says as he takes in her handiwork of small, neat gauze patches, "I look like a ruttin' chessboard."

"You do, somewhat," she concedes with a quick smile. "Do you know what they had on their blades?"

"Naw. Where we goin'?"

"Wash and the captain figured something out. Want some food?"

He shakes his head. "Mal good?" he asks when he sees the bed across the way is empty.

Zoe's got the tin of medicine in her hand as she stands in front of the infirmary com. "Sir? Jayne's awake." She turns back to the bed, holding up the tin. "I need to put this stuff on again," she says as he sighs. She's peeling off the first white square of gauze when she hears Mal's step in the hallway. A moment later, she's shouldered aside.

"Let me," says Mal. "You go up and convince that crazy pilot that we don't need to be stopping on any Alliance planet." He doesn't bother to watch her out the door, trusting that she will obey. He looks down at Jayne's prone body and peels away the gauze. Every wound is staring up at him, and it's hard to believe that they could have looked any worse. But their original blistering red has faded to a painful pink, and the swelling has reduced a little. He unscrews the lid of the ointment tin, forgetting to keep it as far from his face as possible; the acrid odor makes his eyes well and his throat close. He jams the lid back on and waits for his eyes to clear. Once they do, he dips a clean finger in the tin and starts applying the unguent to Jayne's wounds. Over and over, he finds a wound, scoops out some ointment, and applies it, his finger making careful circles. He keeps his mind closed against the horrific injuries, knowing that they might well have been on Zoe's body had he allowed her to accompany him. This could easily be Zoe writhing wretchedly under his insufficient ministrations; this could easily be Zoe scarred and weakened. He owes Jayne everything.

"How is he?" Wash asks before she's even stepped fully into the room.

"Not good," Zoe replies evenly. "Not yet. But there's nothing Alliance doctors could do for him that we can't."

"Alliance?" he asks, his face crinkling up in a puzzled frown.

"Captain said you were looking to land on an Alliance planet," she says.

His face clears. "Yeah. Bolus. Where I'm from. My mother's a healer; not a doctor, but knows natural remedies. It's less than half a day from here."

It's a good idea, and she knows it, but there's one thing she needs to get straight before she persuades Mal. "Did you fight against the Independents?"

"Didn't fight at all."

She nods and pushes the com to connect to the infirmary.

Mal nearly runs her over because she's moving about without looking where she's going. His hands curl familiarly over her shoulders and she's vaguely aware of their grip and his crimson shirt. Only Mal and Zoe wear this red, the color of deserts and dry, dusty battlegrounds where your lips would crack because your canteen was empty; she remembers her uncle's letters. It's red like blood, life spilling on the ground. She squirms a bit under his touch, trying halfheartedly to avoid the dull buzzing sounds in her ears. When he shakes her a bit, she realizes he's been talking to her.

"What's the problem, Kaylee?" he asks, not quite sure if he's amused or troubled by her inattention. But she doesn't answer, looks like she can't even process his question. Truth to tell, she's like a nervous animal, the ones his mama taught him to gentle so's they wouldn't break. He runs his hands up and down her arms, keeping his voice soothing. "Kaylee?" He follows her gaze to a huge, bloody handprint wrapped around the jamb of the common room arch. Jayne's handprint, from when he stumbled onto Serenity after the Pixley job. He swings her around so her back is to the doorway and makes sure he's got her full attention before he asks, "Want to get rid of it?" At her nod, he smiles. "We're hittin' a likely-looking planet today. Pick up some paint. For your room too if you'd like."

* * *

[Bolus]

Her hazel eyes don't shift from Jayne's face, but she knows precisely where her son is at every moment. She can't believe she's got him back, at least for a little while, until she heals this man he's suddenly calling a friend. She tears a large, thick leaf in half, allowing a heavy green syrup to ooze out, and collects it in a small bowl. This will help more than the ointment they've been smearing all over him, and smell better too. She applies it with strong, steady fingers, but Jayne remains asleep. The fragrance of it is still hanging in the air when Zoe walks in. "Sorry," she says, stopping uncertainly at the doorway. "May I come in?"

Esme only nods, watching Zoe look down at Jayne. There's a little bit of guilt there, though she can't figure out what for, and there's a lot of relief; she's sure Zoe's had to look at fallen comrades before, but most of them probably wouldn't have still been breathing. She knows that any moment now, Zoe will catch her eye. "Thank you," Zoe says before walking out again. Behind her, she hears her son sigh, and she finally realizes why he's been so uncharacteristically silent.

She finishes tending to Jayne and turns to face her son. "In love?" she asks, smiling a little at how absurd it is that her baby boy thinks he's grown up enough for this.

She sobers up quickly at the longing on his face. "I want to marry her." For certain he's grown up. She would have more likely bet her money on the little one, the girl who nods knowingly when he speaks of the ship. But it's not for her to say who he should love. Not when he's the only boy she's got left.

She smiles brightly at him and changes the subject. "Hungry?" His nod is so eager that she laughs. "Who does the cooking when you're up there?" she asks, curious about how he lives everyday life.

"We take turns. Jayne there's the only one who's any good at it."

"You let the only decent cook get cut up and poisoned?" she asks, cuffing him affectionately. "I knew I should never have dropped you on your head when you were a baby."

"Did it seem like a good idea at the time?" he asks, straightfaced, and she follows him out of the room, laughing, reminded of why she loves him so.

* * *

[Orlo]

He must be a heavy sleeper if he missed this. He wonders if he snores too.

Somehow, he can't quite fathom how, there's an exercise bench and a full set of weights in the big common area where he and Zoe and Mal sometimes spar. Mal's beaming like an idiot and rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Wanna try it out?"

Jayne looks over at Zoe, and she nods, confirming that he's fully healed. He can't quite keep from grinning a little as he lies on the bench and pulls the weighted bar off the rack. He's become unused to this kind of exertion, and his arms are soon screaming, but it feels good to know he's useful again. He looks up at Mal, who's been spotting him, and tries to smile his thanks. But the storm of emotions on the captain's face stops him; maybe he got it wrong, though, and Mal's eyes weren't shining with guilt and grief, he thinks later. After all, he'd been looking at him upside down.

Kaylee's keeping an eye on the radar, and the others are having dinner and discussing where best to try to sell the goods from the Pixley job. "Orlo's the kind of world where they'd appreciate all that fancy kind of foodstuff," Wash argues.

"Yeah, but they're also likely to already have more than they need, so they won't pay as well," Mal counters. "We need to find a place where these things aren't readily available but the folk have enough money to spend fair for it." A lull descends as Jayne continues to shovel food into his mouth and Zoe is absentmindedly pushing a slice of tomato around her plate. "Zoe?" Mal ventures.

"Hmm?" she responds, still not paying attention.

"Hey, you should eat that," Wash says; "it came from my mother's garden." He's unprepared for the way her eyes snap up to meet his, studying him intently even as she takes a bite.

"Zoe?" Mal says again, a little impatient.

"Small, Alliance-friendly planet's our best bet," she says, shifting her gaze to Mal. "Goods are legal, and we should take advantage of that rarity." She finishes her meal and takes her plate to the sink. She waits for the others to follow suit, as it's her turn to clean. Each man comes up beside her and puts his empty plate in the sink, and she sees only their hands: Jayne's big and callused, Mal's wide and veined, Wash's strong and square. She turns on the water, trying at the same time to turn off her thoughts. He's got his mother's hands, healer's hands. He won't hurt her. He's got a good heart; he brought Jayne to his family. Maybe he meant what he said. She's not used to men thinking of her as a woman; to most, she's too good a soldier to be desirable. Maybe she should give him a chance.

If ever Zoe could look mutinous, Mal thinks, it's at moments like these, which have become all too frequent. She knows what's coming before he even opens his mouth. It's a skill he appreciated in battle. Right now, though, he'd prefer the cool courtesy she'd give a stranger. "All right, people, let's get Serenity lookin' shiny. Got another person maybe interested in renting shuttle one comin' onboard." There's vague grumbling at the work this will entail when they've all got plenty to do already, but there's hope too that this will be the last time they have to go through this whole thing.

But Mal doesn't like the man from the minute he steps onto Serenity. He's a rich kid not quite as grown-up as he thinks, looking to thumb his nose against parental restrictions. He's willing to pay handsomely, and to give a little extra if Kaylee and Zoe wait on him. He's not attentive enough to see Mal's face closing against him, but the others are and know that their two months of such visits have just been extended yet again.

He can't tell what she's up to. Kaylee's not been after him once since he got hurt on Pixley. Maybe she's worried he's still healing and doesn't want to aggravate his injuries. Maybe. But she hasn't looked up at him with that shyly knowing look either, that darkens her eyes and stretches her smile, the one that's enough to get him hard. Could be she needs him to make the first move. Jayne leaves his bunk and heads for the engine room. But it's empty, so he heads to the kitchen to find some grub.

He comes upon her unexpectedly, a small paintbrush in her hand as she decorates the inside of the archway. She's already covered the lowest section with a meandering design of vines, leaves, and poppy blossoms, and is arching her back slightly as she examines the area above her head. Seeing her in that pose, her throat long and fluid, her hair falling down her back, he remembers the last time he saw her like that, when she was on top of him, rising up over him as a flush pinked her skin and her breath started to come sharp and fast and shuddering. He stands there trapped by his desire for her. He can't move even when her eyes lock abruptly onto him. And he still can't move when she gives no sign of recognition or emotion and turns back to face the doorway.

"Goods are legal, shouldn't need lot of muscle for this job. Jayne, you've earned a day off, so . . ."

"No," Jayne cuts off Mal. "Anybody's gonna be backing you up, it's gonna be me." He's not about to be left alone on the boat with Kaylee, who's acting like she's never met him before, let alone moaned his name in a hundred of Serenity's shadowy nooks. He's finally figured it was the blood on Pixley that's causing her to avert her eyes, but what the hell did she expect? She couldn't have thought his entire job was to stand behind Mal and look mean. She'd seen him clean his guns, teased him about the polish he lavished on his knives. Wasn't like he ever shied away when she was covered from ass to eyebrows with engine grease. "Guns okay this time around?" He waits to see her flinch a little before he asks, "Or is it knives only again?"

This is not something Zoe wants to get used to, being left behind while Jayne is sticking to the captain like a burr caught in a saddle blanket. It's always been her job to guard his back, during the war, but especially now. To try to save him a little bit everyday, the way he saved her as they buried Nikhil.

All of her weapons are in perfect working condition, since she cleaned them last night, thinking she'd be accompanying Mal onto Orlo. There are no jobs for her to do. She heads to the kitchen and peers into her cabinet. She doesn't hear Wash come up behind her until he opens the door to his own cabinet.

"Hungry?" he smiles politely. She can't decide between a nod and a shrug, so she simply smiles back. He swallows, then clears his throat. "Well, I've got plenty of food from Bolus. Didn't know if there was a common cabinet, but it's meant for all of us. Why don't I fix you something?"

She's charmed by the offer, but wary of accepting it. She has to be sure before she takes this any further. "I'll make my own. What are you having?" He pulls out handful after handful of fresh food, laying it all on the table. She fetches two plates and some utensils and sits, waiting for him to join her. Placing a piece of flatbread on her plate, she reaches for the jar of coriander spread.

"Careful," he warns; "that's homemade, and my mother likes things spicy." She spoons it on liberally and hands him the jar. Soon they're passing jars and cans of his mother's food back and forth, constantly having to clear space on the crowded table. There seems to be a story behind every dish, and she finds herself remembering and even sharing some of her father's recipes. Little things she'd thought she'd forgotten are coming back to her now, and her eyes are shining with a mournful peace. Wash is more in love than ever.

"Nice tidy profit," Mal announced; "looks like Orlo was a fine idea." He nods amicably at Wash and sees Zoe smile at the acknowledgment. "And we got ourselves another job. Seems a few folks from Orlo - indentured servants, mostly, who've earned their freedom - decided to settle on a planet the next system over. They're in need of iron goods. We're to pick those up on Lowry and then meet them on Visick for the delivery." He sees the question on Wash's face. "And I picked up fuel cells for a journey three times as long. Sky's ours."

* * *

[Lowry]

"You're here!" Kaylee says, a little startled. Her face is shiny with sweat and she's beaming happily. She holds up for Mal's puzzled approval the parts she's found in the salvage yard. "These'll come in mighty handy," she assures him. "Let's see what you got."

He grins and reaches into the sack he's carrying, setting it gently down. Out comes his hand with a horseshoe, and he waves it around a bit. Behind him, he hears Jayne let out a disgusted grunt and unceremoniously drop the two sacks he's been hauling around.

"You know parts and metalwork," Mal says. He holds it out to her and she takes it. Kaylee examines the shoe and hands it back. "Shiny, Cap'n," she says cheerfully, marching past the men with an armful of parts.

"Mal," Jayne says once she's out of earshot, "these shoes and supplies are no good."

"I know they're heavy, Jayne," the captain responds, taking the mercenary's words as a complaint.

Jayne gives him a look, then takes the horseshoe out of Mal's hand. With some effort, he snaps it in half. "They're no good," he says again, emphasizing each word.

Mal's jaw has dropped. "How did you . . ."

"Saw it from the minute you started flashin' that thing 'round at her. Bad metal, bad work."

"Yeah, but how did you . . ."

"My pop was a blacksmith. He's the one showed me how to make gun oil."

Mal sighs, considering their options. "None of it's any good? What about the folk headin' over to Visick? They already paid for this fei-oo."

"Ain't my call."

"That was not a fun time," Mal says, rubbing at his face tiredly with one hand and turning off the video feed with the other. It'd been a chore trying to convince the people leaving for Visick the wares they'd bought would be of no use to them. Better to leave your horses unshod than put such uneven shoes on them, he'd said; don't want to strain their muscles. He'd had to hold one of the broken shoes up to the cortex monitor before they'd believed him. He swivels around in Wash's chair and sees Kaylee holding another of the defective horseshoes.

"Cain't believe I let you down, that I didn't see it," she says, looking up at him regretfully.

"Whoa, whoa. No lettin' down happened here. Your job ain't to inspect ironwork. Quit frownin' lines into that pretty face," he orders.

"How'd you know?" she wonders as she examines the shoe once more.

"Jayne." He can tell by the way her head whips back up that he's surprised her. "Said somethin' after you took off."

"Oh," she says, trying to guess what the mercenary was thinking. If there was ever one person whose thought processes she thought she could figure without strain, it was Jayne. But now he's gone and thrown her for a loop.

Zoe must be workin' through an idea of her own, or else she'd be with him right now, trying to figure what to do next. The 'verse is theirs; they've got fuel cells, credits, and the sweetest ride in space. He wonders if there's anyplace she's always wanted to go.

He wouldn't be surprised to find her in the bridge with Wash. Since the Orlo job, he's seen that she's been making an effort to get along better with the pilot. Practical woman, Zoe is, and a damn fine second; she knows that a friendly word now and then will keep Serenity flying. But when Mal reaches the bridge, he doesn't see her making polite conversation. Instead, she's failing to keep a straight face as she and Wash play a game of chess. She's on her feet the minute she spots Mal. "Sir?" she asks. "Something come up on the cortex?"

"No," he admits, leaning against the nearest wall. "Just wanted to know if you had any ideas about where we could be headin'."

"No one in this corner of the 'verse I'm inclined to say hello to," she responds, sinking back down to her seat. She feigns absent-mindedness, pretending to consider the possibilities while she maneuvers her queen into striking position. She knows Mal sees through her; she also knows he won't give her away to Wash.

But Wash is too focused on Zoe to miss any of her moves. His reply is quick, keeping his king out of danger. Mal nods approvingly, then examines the pilot more closely. "How about you, Wash? Any leads on a job or likely world for work?"

"No, I don't know this area too well. Don't even know the hub planet," he says, groaning as Zoe's knight knocks out one of his rooks. "Can't talk now, Sir, she's storming my castle."

The dinner that Jayne made keeps them too busy stuffing food in their mouths to talk much about where they're headed. And Mal recognizes the rare sense of relaxation, and decides to let the issue wait until morning. He's enjoying the camaraderie, and proposes a game of hoopball after the kitchen's left clean, Zoe and Jayne to be captains.

Kaylee watches as Jayne wins the toss. Her heart sinks a little when his eyes pass right over her and he chooses Wash. Every time he's been captain before, he's chosen her, and at some point in the game, gotten her up on his shoulders to score a few easy points. Before she can say anything, Zoe's chosen Mal, and she's left to wait on the sidelines as a substitute. The game starts off slow, even a little clumsy. She finds herself watching Jayne all the time, as he maneuvers and passes and shoots and positions himself. She hears his voice calling for the ball, whooping encouragement, mocking as he blocks shots. She sees how easy he is with his body, how sure of himself he is physically. There is a reason he's still alive at thirty-seven, having been a mercenary for so many years. She still doesn't like his job, but he's good at it, and he's necessary. She realizes now they'd all be dead - Captain and Wash right there on Pixley, she and Zoe as they tried to return to Serenity - if Jayne hadn't been so capable. She sees Jayne call for a time-out and Wash head to the sidelines; when she comes onto the court, she tries to smile at Jayne. He ignores the hopeful look on her face and passes her the ball.

Serenity's been floating carefree for weeks, in no particular rush to get anywhere. Mal's worked out with Jayne for the last week, and once, when the muscle strain got to be too much, he'd chased Kaylee out of the engine room where she'd been holing herself up by taunting her for not knowing how to play Tall Card. It's kind of silly to have only two players, but Jayne said he needed to exercise his legs, and he'd seen Wash heading to Zoe's quarters with the mapbook tucked under his arm.

"Do you get it now?" he asks, smiling as he sees her bite her lip in concentration.

"No," she admits cheerfully. "Where we headed?"

"No plans as of yet. Why?"

"Just curious. It's nice, seeing the worlds like this," she says, smiling around at the warmth of the common room, unaware that she's tilted her cards so that he can read them.

"Now, see, if you'd put these two cards down, you'd've won," he informs her.

"Really? I won?" she asks, beaming like a child, raising her arms for a victory pose.

"Not exactly -" he begins, but is cut off when she jumps up and hugs him from behind. "Yes, mei-mei," he amends; "you've won."

It's been an odd kind of day, he thinks as he lies on his bed, his feet still on the floor. One of his hands is resting idly on his chest, and he can feel his heartbeat. The rhythm is picked up in a faint thrumming at the door. That's Zoe, doing her fingertips-only knock; it means she wants to talk. "Come in, Zoe," he calls, and sits up.

"Sir," she acknowledges as she peeks around the door. Her face is grave and her eyes are shining, and he's not sure what to make of it. He waits for her to have her say. "Mal, I'm getting married," she nearly whispers.

He tries to stave off the panic that overwhelms him. He can't think, but he must. Where could she have met anyone? They haven't been on land long enough for her to do much more than nod professionally at men whose eyes were trained on her gun instead of her face or form. It occurs to him, suddenly, in a wave of despair that renders his panic trivial, that she hasn't asked if he'd be willing to bring her husband aboard; she's leaving. Leaving him, leaving Serenity. "When?" he finally asks. He needs to know the worst right now, needs to know how long he's got until she takes off with his will to live.

"Don't know. I haven't asked him yet," she says, her forehead knotting as she takes in how defeated he suddenly looks.

"What? Don't joke," he pleads. He still can't figure who she intends to wed. "Give me a time."

"I haven't talked it over with him yet. I wanted to come to you first," she says, gesturing almost helplessly, as if she wants to reach out to him but isn't sure her touch would be welcome.

He wishes she would touch him. He needs an anchor to reality right now. "Goin' about this a bit backward, ain't you?" he asks, his heart crumpling as her hesitance with him proves that she means what she says. She really is going to marry and leave. She's really found someone who can fill the holes in her heart and not just show her the holes in his.

"Mal, please," she begs. "I want this, but I want you . . ." she trails off, unsure if she can put into words what he means to her, what she needs from him.

"To give you my blessing?" he finishes, torn between sorrow and rage. "How can I do that, Zoe, when he's taking you away?" The rage might be winning.

She sees now that he's on the wrong tack. She hastens to reassure him. "Wash and I won't be leaving Serenity, Sir."

"Wash?!?" his disbelief is total, and so, in turn, is hers. Who else did he think she was spending time with and falling in love with? At her nod, his face hardens a bit. The rage is definitely winning, but at least he's not repeating all of her complaints about the pilot.

She sees that he's clamped his mouth shut, his lips turning white from pressure, in an effort not to say anything hurtful. In the silence, she finds her own words. "Yes. Wash. I love him. I know we have next to nothing in common, but that little is enough. I trust him. I love him." She glances at him, but his face is still angled down and slightly away from her; she'd have to stoop to catch his eye. She steps close instead, laying one hand on his chest. Her fingertips drum out the rhythm of his heartbeat automatically. He's startled into looking up and they both straighten their spines. Eyes level with his, she continues. "But I could never leave you. You are a part of me, Mal, the best part. You're so deep inside me that I can't be me without you."

He'll take it. It might not be eloquent, but he knows she means it. He knows because that's all he could say to her in return. You are me, Zoe, and without you I'm lost. He cups her cheek tenderly, and then she's in his arms, and he has to be careful not to crush her to him. Instead, they stand there, warm in each other's embrace, and there's no need for anything else.

"Monty? Really?" Mal asks.

Zoe nods. "Makes sense, Sir. He's been on Thalia long enough that he's got some say in how things there are run, and we can be there in a few days."

"And you got business to take care of," Mal finishes. "Would be good to see the old walrus again," he muses, "and mayhap he'll have work for us. All right."

She squeezes his arm as she slips by him, heading for the bridge. "Thalia," she says low in Wash's ear, and he plugs in the coordinates before swiveling around to face her.

When he sees her smile, he's startled. "That's where we're getting married?" he blurts out. "Don't you want to go somewhere nice, someplace shiny, where you won't be the only woman who's not marrying her cousin?"

She laughs and explains, "It's the closest decent world from here. And as long as Mal is there, the rest doesn't matter to me."

His face darkens. "As long as Mal is there?" he repeats.

"Yes," she says staunchly. "He belongs there. I'm not getting married without him."

He's hurt by her insistence. "Does the groom matter at all? Would you marry Jayne on Thalia if Mal was there?" He'd envisioned it being just the two of them, lost in each other; he wasn't bargaining on this sort of menage a trois.

"Of course you matter," she says plainly. She searches for a way to make this right, and the sight of his face bathed in starlight inspires her. "Look," she says, gesturing to all the worlds visible from Serenity's bridge. "Tell me what you see."

He's confused, but knows she's trying to explain herself. He plays along. "I see . . . planets. Stars. New worlds to build lives on." She stays silent, so he figures he owes her more. "And . . . there's a balance, an order . . . it's beautiful."

She nods. "And when it's just you up on the bridge, just seeing this view makes you sure your life has meaning, a purpose maybe even you haven't figured out yet?" He's dumbfounded by the way she's seen into him, and seeing his astonished face, she explains, "What the stars do for you - that's what Mal does for me."

* * *

[Thalia]

Squinting in the dim, dusty light, Zoe finally spots him and indicates her success with a hand on Mal's arm, over the scar he acquired on Pixley. They stride over and wait for Monty to raise his gaze from his drink. When he does, the riotously shaggy beard parts to let them see his broad, surprised smile. "Mal and Zoe," he crows, clapping them each hard on the back, "what in the good gorram are you doin' here?"

"Hoped you might help us out," Mal says as he slides onto the barstool next to Monty's.

"With what exactly? What are you up to?" he asks Zoe, knowing that any straightforward answer would come from her.

"Gettin' married," she smiles.

Monty's jaw drops as he swivels jerkily to face one and then the other. "But you . . . no . . . that ain't . . ."

"I ain't the lucky man, Monty," Mal breaks in before his old friend dizzies himself further. "But Zoe's tellin' you true. She's gettin' hitched. Can we do it here?"

Monty holds up a finger and quaffs his drink in one long gulp. He shakes his head like a wet dog and looks back up at the two of them. "Certainly!" he says in his normal voice. "Fact, the Thalia ceremony's kinda cute."

"Cute?" Mal asks as Zoe looks perturbed.

"You know . . . quaint. But nice and short. No fuss."

"Sounds good." Mal stands to go, offering Monty his hand. "Would you like to meet the man? Come back to the ship with us."

"Not today, but I'll be by to talk business with you soon."

Thalia weddings, at least those between a man and a woman, Mal is surprised to find, require four participants. As he waits for Zoe, he wonders what the procedure is when two men, or two women, wed. Jayne's been teasing him all day about his role as "Bride's Best," and he wonders if there's an alternate title. He tugs a bit on the leather bands that Zoe had stripped from her own throat and wound about his. "Doesn't seem bridal, Sir," she'd said, her voice teasing and her eyes glowing, "but I'd hate to think that if somebody got shot at my wedding, we wouldn't be able to fashion a damn good tourniquet."

"Don't get sentimental on me now, Zoe," he'd joked half-heartedly, but the laughter turned real when they saw Jayne bearing his wedding gift.

"Last of my pop's gun oil," he bragged as he set the small bottle down before Zoe.

"Speaking of sentiment . . ." Zoe smiled, halfway between tears and mockery.

Jayne flushed a bit. "Figured you could always use it," he mumbled, and his hand gestures grew more vigorous and vague, "and . . . I thought . . . I want . . . your marriage to be as happy as his," he finished quickly, the last words coming out in a tangled rush.

Zoe's eyes brimmed, and Mal was surprised to find himself brushing away some moisture from his own. She smiled sweetly at Jayne and reached out a gentle hand to pat his abdomen over long-healed scratches and they flashed a conspiratorial glance at each other. "I'm givin' Wash some soothing cream, since I know what those nails of yours can do," Jayne smirked as he wrapped a careless, fraternal arm about Zoe's neck. He allowed Zoe to shoo him out of the room, but at the last minute he turned. He met Mal's eye briefly and nodded like a comrade in arms before vanishing.

The sound of Monty clomping toward him brings Mal back to the present moment. He's in no mood to be greeted so cheerfully by someone who'd tossed out the innocent word "cute" without explaining it. "Monty," he says, as he advances as threateningly as he can, "what exactly does being `Bride's Best' entail?"

Monty reddens a bit and kicks the dusty ground. "Shoot, Mal, it's an honor. Know how many brides never actually became wives because folks lookin' to be Bride's Best got a little too competitive?"

"What are you saying? People have died and killed for this job?"

"Well, not killed exactly. More like . . . temporarily put out of commission. More'n a few times, there was no one left standing to be Bride's Best and the couple had to wait until injuries had healed."

"That's crazy!" Mal starts, about to begin a fine long rant, when he realizes that Monty's nodding his head mournfully as if he's in complete agreement even as he tries to sidle away. Mal reaches out and collars him, none too gently. "If you don't tell me what I'm going to have to do, I'll hold you down and shave off that beard of yours with my dullest knife."

Monty sputters a bit. "You've got to be the one who knows Zoe the best." Mal nods. "And you've got to be the one she can always turn to." Another nod. "And you've got to love her." Relieved grin; this isn't so bad. "And you've got to publicly declare your love for her and officially state that you support the union into which she is entering."

Monty had been right; the ceremony was quite short. Nevertheless, he'd felt dazed throughout, as if he were half a step behind everyone else. Jayne's striped shirt was too loose on him, and Zoe's leather bands were too tight around his throat. Monty had neglected to mention that Bride's Best actually functioned as Bride's Seat for the duration, and he'd had Zoe's warm, pliant weight on his lap as he struggled to find words fitting for the occasion. He heard little of Wash's words, spoken in a voice excitement had raised an octave and a half. He felt Zoe's words as a vibration. And then it was his turn to speak, to bare the heart Zoe had sheltered for so long. He spoke the words she'd pledged to him on Serenity, and Zoe nestled back against his chest and his lips found the spot just under her ear as he breathed her name. Then she stood, leaving him shivering from the sudden cold, and let Monty guide her hand to Wash's and the three of them spoke in unison and smiled.

She can hear the captain coming, unfocused energy evident in his quick and heavy steps. Before he can finish bellowing out her name, Kaylee steps into the hallway with a smile. He doesn't miss a beat. "Saw the job you did on shuttle two for Zoe an' Wash." She can't catch his eye, dancing here, there, everywhere; can't tell if he's pleased or pissed. "Looks mighty nice," he continues, talking a mile a minute. "Could you do more of the same for shuttle number one? No need for leaving around bottles of engine-brewed wine and flowers everywhere, but it could stand to be spruced up." She nods willingly. "Good," he says, deliberately not letting her get a word in. "I'm gonna stay with Monty for a few days. Says he's got a fair few ideas about who might want to rent our shuttle," he finishes with a brittle grin.

She watches him scurry off the ship and makes her way up the stairs. Halfway up, it strikes her. She's alone on the boat with Jayne; she can't tell if the shudder that runs through her is evidence of fear or desire. She turns and heads for his quarters.

Turns out it's easier than that. He's got a mat spread near his weight-bench, and he's lying on it doing sit-ups. His movements are extraordinarily smooth, fluid rather than quick, so that her eye can barely capture one image - the roundness of his shoulder, the tautness of his stomach - before the next confronts her. "Jayne," she finally says, closing her eyes and opening her mouth. Her eyes flutter open and she sees him sit up one last time, ending his routine so abruptly it seems as if he's lunged at her. His eyes are boring into her. At her silence, he flips over and begins his push-ups. Now she's watching him snap into place each time his elbows lock, and she feels like she's being hypnotized. "I'm sorry," she ventures.

"Sorry what? Sorry I play with knives?"

"Just sorry."

"No, you ain't." It's a statement, devoid of emotion.

"Truly, I swear," she avows, carefully hedging around any specifics.

And he's on his feet, towering over her, and she takes a step backward. He grins and advances. "You still think I might hurt you." She can smell his sweat, and her body betrays her again. He takes in her parting lips and darkening eyes. "Say it," he demands.

"I still want you," she says instead, capitulating, and reaches for him.

He steps back. "My way." She stills, uncertain of what that might mean. His eyes are giving away nothing. Finally, she nods. "No talking," he says as he pulls her top over her head. He's bending down to unfasten her pants when she stoops to kiss him. He gets her lower lip between his teeth and tugs her mouth open for the kiss that comes after he releases her. He uses the sides of his feet to strip her pants off her, the underwear tangling around her ankles. She breaks the kiss, stumbling away to rid herself of clothes entirely, and he takes the opportunity to do the same. He turns back to her, twisting at the waist, his arm raised and bent at the elbow. She stiffens, a cold sweat suddenly drenching her as she reacts to the knife he's got in his hand. It's her dream all over again. But she doesn't feel a blade shen he drags the backs of his fingers heavily across her breasts and the nightmare begins to dissolve. Her mind seems to shut down entirely when he brushes the rough pad of one long finger insistently over her clit. She's barely standing, but she has just enough wherewithal to reach down and lace her fingers through his, pulling first that hand and then the other away. Joined only by their clasped hands, she walks backward until she can sense one of Serenity's smooth, welcoming walls behind her. She lets go of his hands then, and he's on her, teeth, fingers, tongues, palms. Her back is skidding up and down the wall as he pushes into her, not seeming to tire.

Every time one of her moans is cut short by the hitching of her breath, Jayne knows he can't let this be over anytime soon. She's afraid of his hands and the weapons they carry. But at this moment, his fingers are slick with her wetness. She sees him as an animal; he delicately grasps her shoulder with his teeth, teasing the flesh with his tongue, and she responds with hard little biting nips along his jawline. And all the while, he's thrusting insistently into her, and the thick brushed-metal wall behind her is getting hot. He comes, finally, and afterwards, in the stillness before he lets her slide down and out of his arms, he sees the tears leaking from her eyes; she bit her lower lip to shreds trying not to speak. "Kaylee," he says gently, cupping her cheek; he didn't mean for her to be so slavishly obedient.

She looks up to meet his eyes. "Jayne," she says, leaning forward to wind her arms around him once more.

He opens his mouth to ask Barak what it felt like to lose a limb, then decides he's not drunk enough to ask the question innocently. He knows Barak wouldn't be offended - he'd been the one to keep the rest of Barak intact - but he knows too that Monty and, hell, maybe even Barak and Riddler and Jenny, would know what he really meant was that he felt lost without Zoe.

Well, fine. God lets you down; Zoe never will. There's no shame in putting all your faith in her. But he never thought he'd feel this wide open, cracked crookedly from side to side, just because she wasn't standing beside him.

He gets up, a little unsteady on his feet, and waves off Monty's fuzzy offer to put him up for the night. Back to Serenity, where Zoe loves him, where Zoe will return. He hears Barak saying something in a tone befitting a nagging wife and he nods noncommittally, raising his glass in a last salute before he turns and heads home.

He wakes with Kaylee's firm hand wiggling his arm. "Cap'n?" she greets him inquisitively. "Got a wave from someone . . . Berrick? . . . about your appointment tomorrow?"

"Barak," he murmurs sleepily, correcting her pronunciation. Then he hears the rest of what she's saying. "What appointment?"

"Someone to see the shuttle," she reminds him, looking a little surprised. "It looks as nice as Jayne and I could get it."

"Early tomorrow?" he asks, smiling at her pride. At her nod, he rolls over, mumbling, "Wake me?" before he falls back asleep.

It's illegal to own an image of a registered Companion, unless it's the work of an Allianceapproved imagist, and had been commissoned by the Guild or the Companion herself. Naturally enough, a black market had sprung up, and along the course of his journeyings about the 'verse, Mal had seen several counterfeit images, garishly colored and elegantly drawn, cheap copies and quality reproductions. He's never seen anything to match her.

She walks in with a smile that lends a glow to her black clothes and the dim hallway, even though it's barely polite. Her beauty overwhelms him. He doesn't like feeling off-balance. In his mind, he begins to pick her apart, anything to lessen the power she evidently has over him. Prob'ly not very pretty without all that face paint, he thinks, cursing silently as she walks into the light to get a view from the shuttle's bridge, casually wrecking his theory. His disappointment takes verbal form as he needles her about running away, and she stiffens - but only slightly - in response. Hoping for more of a reaction, he casts about and baits her by announcing that the ship she's on is captained by a proud Browncoat. But she smoothly sidesteps, and he can't believe he's spent so long talking to someone who calmly avers that she supported the Alliance. But then he remembers who she is, what she does, and knows his surprise was naive. Makes sense that she would favor unification; without it, her precious guild would be powerless; if all worlds were independent, she'd have to stay put or hack out a new life each time she moved. So she's taken the easy way out, and that makes sense, given that she's never worked a day in her life. Only the nights, because she's a whore, spreading her legs for the highest bidder. In his last effort to get her off his ship, that's what he tells her.

* * *

[Bellavista]

She was always a silent child, never quite fitting in, never enthused by anything. Any other child let loose in her father's workshop would have played in the piles of sawdust, held out a piece of wood and ordered an animal to be whittled. She smiled and quietly stepped around the mess. He knew he'd never be able to hold on to her. He was a mere craftsman and Inara was a work of art. When she turned thirteen and he was asked by the council to send her to the great city for testing, he knew he could not say no.

They take one look at her, this budding girl, and they say yes. She is too beautiful for words, the ideal girl to train to be a Companion. She makes no response to their sales pitch. Only, "It is for my father to say." They send her back with a letter of acceptance to the Academy on Bellavista. He cannot say no. He holds on to the fact that he has three more years with her. They fly by far too quickly for him. She leaves Sihnon, observing its beauty from the safety of an Alliance transport. It is an ocean of light. But you can drown in an ocean. You can be blinded by light. She is only comfortable in the dark.

She is surprised by the happiness she finds at the Academy, on Bellavista. She's never known the feeling before. But it's there, in the cool confidence with which she meets every test she's given. Her hair is pulled tightly back to discover the curve of her hairline; a stream of water is trickled under her to test how high the arches of her slender feet are. The grain of her skin is studied, the shape of her eyes carefully noted. Her body chemistry is programmed into a computer that determines that dark scents like sandalwood are most suited for her; they will seem to emanate from her drowsy flesh. There is nothing that does not come naturally to her. They do not need to teach her to keep her voice pleasingly low, to hold her head at the angle denoting dignity and grace. She knows what jewels her dark hair will wear well, what rich fabrics to drape around her shapely form. She is the pride of the Academy.

It has been two years of security at the Academy, two years of friendships, two years of dutiful letters to a father yearning for word of her. She enters the room where she will take her final test for the guild. She kneels and says, "Pleasure is a discipline. Pleasure depends on discipline. Their pleasure will be in me. My pleasure will be in fulfilling the duty which has been entrusted to me." They nod approvingly, and she is asked to sit and take tea. They watch her prepare and pour tea, her movements as fluid as the spiced drink. She sips delicately as she has been taught, she smiles sweetly over the rim of her cup. When the drugs take effect, they bring her to a medical bay. The procedure, perfected over centuries, performed only by guild physicians, is over quickly. She awakens in her own bedchamber in the Apprentice Hall.

It is not until a few years later that she learns what was done. She knows she was given medicines and herbs that reduced her flux from five days a month to two days every ten weeks, as all the apprentices were; there is little point, they were told, to a Companion who cannot work for at least two months of every year. She has never followed that logic through to its utmost end, though, as they have. What, after all, is the good of a Companion who can bear a child?

* * *

[Thalia]

This time, it's like a game, and Wash is determined to win. She's naked, lying on her side, head propped up on one folded arm. "I want you flat on your back," he says; at his commanding tone of voice, she merely raises an eyebrow. He quits looming over her - he knows he's not in the least intimidating - and rationalizes that there's no such thing as cheating if all's fair in love and war, and oh God, does he love this woman. "Zoe," he murmurs, bending his head to trail his tongue along the bicep of her bent arm. He's nearly at her shoulder when her breast gets in the way. "Not now," he informs it sternly, "arm first." He pushes it away and lowers his head again. But the heavy weight settles against his cheek once more and he sighs, shaking a denunciatory finger at her breast. "Greedy. Can't wait your turn." Her giggles turn to contented sighs as his mouth descends gently on her nipple, and she rolls languorously onto her back. He doesn't stop, but she catches his mirthful eye.

"Yes, you won this battle," she concedes, "but I've got the strategy to win the war." He's laughing too as he captures her mouth and settles himself between her legs like he's come home.

Although he'd bought Serenity to elude people like her, people who willingly traded their freedom for a little ease, a little comfort, Mal ended up renting shuttle one to the Companion. The credits from the Orlo job were running low, the Thalia jobs had fallen through, and the surveyor and his wife had found a ship with a cook living onboard.

He can't keep himself from wishing that the Companion - he'd only learned her name from the contract she'd had drawn up - will, once he's gotten her from point A to point B, find some excuse to break the contract and leave him in peace. Pretty much before they've left point A, though, Kaylee dashes his hopes, welcoming the newcomer warmly and exclaiming over her fripperies. And when he sees them together, he can't help remembering that the Companion, once she'd gotten out all her gibes and sneers, had referred to the shuttle as "home," like she'd been searching for a place of safety.

He just wishes Zoe would come home.

* * *

[Shadow]

He looks down and sees that Odile is dead. His hands clench, and he has to shake the crumbled cigar out of one fist. He turns on his heel and strides away, ignoring the nurses' calls for him to look at his newborn daughter. He curses Odile over and over again; he'd paid for beauty but had gotten only weakness, he'd needed a son and she'd spited him with a worthless daughter. He hears crying behind him and he pivots to see the sheet being drawn up over Odile's face. The child is already feeding at the ample breast of the wet nurse. He slams the door on his way out.

The doctor clears his throat, explaining that he needs to know the baby's name to fill out the birth certificate. In the silence that follows, the wet nurse steps forward, still suckling the baby, and offers, "Delia." It's a near-reversal of the poor dead mother's name, she thinks, and mayhap it'll reverse the terrible luck Odile suffered.

Had her father ever acknowledged her, Delia Reynolds would have been the princess of Shadow, ruling beside him over the vast ranch that employed every able-bodied man for hundreds of miles around. But she raised herself as if she were one of his laborers, and her chestnut-colored hair was tangled with sweat and her green eyes were slitted against the dust thousands of pounding hooves raised. He saw her once, whooping it up, standing in an admiring throng with the ignorant rabble he employed, watching one of the men atop a bucking bronco. When she mounted the animal after it had thrown the previous rider, her face alight with anticipation, he turned away, disgusted by the hoyden that bore his name.

But she did worse than that to his good name. He'd sent fortune-hunters off packing, claiming that the girl wasn't his heir, that the ranch would pass to a cousin - a man - who lived on Dupat. The girl was clearly her mother's child, possessed of a fine-boned face that never betrayed her wanton ways.

She'd never been in love, never cherished fantasies about one special man, until that summer, when suddenly there were two who owned her heart between them, two playmates who became the loves of her life overnight. And there is no choice to be made, for her or for them, best friends all. She loves them both, it's as simple as that, until her father chooses to hear the whispers borne along a venomous breeze. Whore, they say, pretty little whore. For the first time in her life, her father has something to say to her; she stands unflinchingly before him. Her defiance - she dares to look him in the eye! - enrages him and brings her mother sharply back to his mind. His chest seizes, and he pitches forward on his last breath.

The gossip dries up with the old man's death; no point in whispering what everyone already knows, what Delia and Luke and Charlie have never bothered to hide. And it turns out there is no cousin on Dupat, no will even, and it's Delia's steady hand that guides the ranch to prosperity. She tears down their shacks and builds proper houses for the workers. Soon families are coming to Shadow, looking for work and a decent place to live.

Her son is born one crisp autumn, and it's soon evident that he's inherited from all three of his parents a taste for the outdoor life and an appreciation for horseflesh. The men get used to seeing his round face set in determination as he works alongside them; Delia catches herself listening for his bubbling laugh as the men tell him tales of the marvelously ornery horses they've bred.

In the rainy season, he attends the school organized by a few of the workers' wives. Delia assumes the silence he now wears like a garment is the natural result of learning, a sign of budding wisdom; Luke and Charlie view the change differently, seeing the bruises he keeps concealed under the mud that covers everyone for the season.

He faces the three of them like they're a tribunal and he's a criminal of war. He's finding it hard to look at his mama. And Luke and Charlie - it seems tremendously important now that he know which of them is his father. "Malcolm." He's startled by his mother's solemn voice, startled into meeting her sorrowful gaze.

There's just that single word hanging in the air. They don't prod, and Mal cannot keep from repeating his schoolmates' taunts about his mother: "Bible says you're a whore." He shifts unhappily, waiting for one of them to offer a rebuttal, to give him a response that will be more effective than his fists have been so far. Instead there's another long silence.

"Do you know what a whore is?" Delia finally asks.

"Yes'm. A woman who fornicates with men she ain't married to."

"No," she says softly, remembering the joyous hymns her nurse used to sing. "It's not about marriage. What's the most important word in the Bible?"

"God," he answers confidently. The tilt of her head means try again. "Jesus?" Her eyes are smiling at him. "Love," he figures out, rewarded by her proud nod.

"A whore is someone who fornicates for money, someone who forgets the most important word in all the worlds."

He smiles tremulously, letting her words sink in. With a bright laugh Luke scoops him up and throws him over his shoulder. Charlie reaches out to ruffle his hair. "C'mon, Scholar, let's chop some firewood to keep your mama toasty."

* * *

[Thalia]

Mal's doing the laundry when he senses her behind him. He turns with a grin. "Don't suppose you got much to throw in here," he says.

She grins back, never hesitating to match his frankness. "Not a lot of clothes were worn these last few days."

"Days?" he feigns a look of surprise. "Been weeks, Zoe. Felt like years."

She caresses his shoulder on her way to the kitchen. "Still my turn on the schedule? I'll get dinner started."

Wash watches his wife cook, unabashedly admiring her. She's a little flushed from the heat, and she can't help smiling herself even as she scolds him. "Stop grinning at me and make yourself useful. Set the table, at least." He jumps up, bows deeply, and carries out her bidding.

He's just finishing up when he sees Kaylee and Mal enter, Jayne a step behind them. Kaylee's eyes brighten and she scurries over to hug him and then step accusingly back. "Serenity's bored. She's just itchin' to test out those shiny new parts, and you kept her waiting."

"Equally Zoe's fault," he protests with a sidelong glance at his wife. "More. She's the senior officer." Kaylee turns her teasing frown on Zoe.

"She knock out your ability to count?" Jayne snickers. "Should be one more plate on the table." Zoe nods as if a suspicion has been confirmed, but Wash waits for Mal to verify Jayne's words.

"Rented shuttle one finally," the captain offers readily. "Tenant's -"

Kaylee cuts him off, enthusiastic words bubbling over. "She's a Companion! An' she's so beautiful, an' so glamorous, an' so nice, an' she's traveled all over the 'verse . . ." She trails off when she hears approaching footsteps, missing the inquisitive look Zoe shoots Mal, too busy beaming eagerly at her new friend. "Zoe, Wash, this is Inara."

Inara retires to her shuttle to send waves to a few clients on Pearline and its moons. Wash is on the bridge, mapping out a route to that rich little world after Mal dourly agreed to Inara's request. Mal and Zoe are discussing Inara and the possible acquisition of paying passengers. Jayne and Kaylee are in a corner of the ship they'd last visited months ago.

"She's pretty, ain't she?" Kaylee asks plaintively.

"Who?" he mutters as he pulls clothes off both their bodies indiscriminately, too eager to be concerned about tearing the material.

"'Nara." She waits. "Would you rather be with her, doin' this?"

Before he can remind himself that he's already played - and lost - the game of emotions with this girl, the truth is on his lips in a derisive laugh. "Naw. Companions do the whole thing wrong."

She's startled out of her vulnerability. "You ever . . . ?" she asks.

He shakes his head and answers the unspoken question of her wrinkling brow. "If you can keep all that face-paint on during the fun, you gotta be doing something wrong. Now come over here," his large hands grasp her hips, long fingers draped warmly over her haunches, "and do me right."

* * *

[Blackfoot]

It's been months since Kaylee had popped her head into Inara's shuttle to introduce herself as the one to call if anything went wrong. But even now, Inara can't quite put a name to what Kaylee is to her. Sweeter than a sister, there's no trace of rivalry. Certainly not the child she'll never have, although the girl has a trick of coming to her shuttle late at night with a lit-up face, as if she's expecting a bedtime story. She doesn't want to hear the details of the sex, things the Guild forbids telling. Kaylee only wants to know what comes after, how many men wanted to take her away from it all. It's not desire she wants to hear about; it's the fairy tale.

Her life on this boat, or in any space dominated by Malcolm Reynolds, certainly resembles no sweet, familiar story. She'd walked onto the ship expecting to find a standard ex-sergeant: a courteous and efficient man proud of his record if he'd been for the winners, or a bitter, ambitious man with a veil drawn over his past if he'd been for the Independents. She hadn't thought to find a man whose dark humor spared himself least of all, a man who'd bleed to death, bleed all over you, just to spite you. Unprepared, she'd succumbed to the temptation of excitement and heedlessly invited an explosion with her looks of distaste and her elegant little phrases, punctuated by disdainful pauses. She'd gotten enough of a reaction to send her to her dedicated source box to pull up everything she could find on Malcolm Reynolds, Browncoats, and the Battle of Serenity Valley. She'd had the contracts drawn up that night.

What she saw in him after Zoe's return confirmed her belief that she'd chosen her new life well. They were a formidable pair, Mal and Zoe; can't have one without the other, and together, she senses, they are more than the sum of their parts promises.

The distress signal comes after a long run of good luck dodging Alliance patrols and an even longer run of nothing but protein mush in the kitchen cabinets. The call for help switches unceasingly from English to Chinese and then back again. No one answers Mal's offers of aid. Wash steers Serenity in close, and Mal, Zoe, and Jayne board Prospector.

Mal's a little unnerved; it's like stepping into a painting, everything's so very still. He heads up to the bridge after posting Jayne as lookout. Still nothing and nobody's moving. He taps a button and the controls suddenly blaze with light. He can see that all the lifeboats have been launched, but he can't figure what prompted the flight. He gets Kaylee on the com and minutes later she's walking towards him, looking like a little girl playing 'verse traveler in her suit, excited breath misting the glass. He sees her reach out to touch Jayne's hand as she passes him, and the familiarity in the sweep of her hand along his arm cannot be masked even by their bulky suits. And then she's right in front of him, looking up at him the way he thinks a baby sister would, and he tells himself he's imagining things; his hand reaches for her shoulder as he gives her the orders. He follows her to the engine-room, leaving Zoe and Jayne to begin inventory.

She's only looked at the engine for a few moments before she pops back up again, startling him a little. "Extenders snapped off, Cap'n. Weren't braced." She looks at him like she honestly believes he understands her secret code.

"What does that mean, Kaylee?" he asks patiently.

"Engine's fine. Everything's workin'; they just couldn't go anywhere."

"Because . . .?"

"Oh! Extenders is what gets the the power of the engine to the right place so's the ship can actually move," she says, striving for the simplest language.

"And they couldn't fix it?"

"Looks like they didn't know what was even wrong. 80-04's ain't everyone's cup o' tea. Most times it's easier just to leave it and move on."

"Anything here might be useful on Serenity?" he asks, and at her nod radios up to Jayne to grab a few empty sacks and head to the engine room. "Tell Zoe I'm comin' up. Let's do this right and quick."

"Here you go, dear," Zoe smiles as she places a small plastic dinosaur in front of her husband. "Kaylee found that for you on the ship." He looks at the two of them. They've both got the same expression on their faces, wicked and innocent at once.

Playing it straight is the way to go here, he thinks. "Thank you both," he says soberly, scooping up his new toy and heading back for the bridge. On his way out, he decides being a grown-up is no damn fun. Peeking his head around the doorway, he announces, "New show tonight!" and growls, shaking the tyrannosaurus at them.

She needs all the training the treacherous guild bestowed on her to keep her composure when Kaylee bursts into the shuttle with the doll. It's fairly crude, with lank brown hair and a grimy complexion, but the fabric of its dress is surprisingly rich, peach with the dull sheen only heavy silk can muster. She wore a dress of the same material when she took her final test at the Academy. She becomes aware that Kaylee's saying something. " . . . so shuai, isn't it?" the girl asks wistfully. "I've never seen the like. Except in here." There's that smile again.

"You're welcome to try on anything that pleases you," Inara answers, steering the conversation smoothly away.

"Oh, I couldn't! I don't wanna muss your pretty things."

"You wouldn't, mei-mei. And I could arrange your hair, and we could even try some cosmetics."

Kaylee's got an odd look on her face. "Face-paint?" she asks. "No."

"Are you afraid that the captain will disapprove? He might not like it, but what occurs in this shuttle is none of his business."

Kaylee's shaking her head. "No, it ain't the cap'n. I ain't afraid o' him," she smiles, dimpling, remembering the circumstances under which she'd first met him. Her smile fades as she recalls her friend's clipped tone. "'Nara? You afraid of him?"

Yes, she wants to say, of course I'm frightened of a man who's built a life around a devastating loss; I've built mine despite my loss, by ignoring it, pushing it to the back of my mind. But his loss freed him, unhinged him. The only time he's predictable is when he's calling me a whore. "No," she finally says; "we just don't see eye-to-eye on most things."

Kaylee's already examining the first closet of Inara's gowns. Her voice is a little muffled when she says, "Only one who always does is Zoe."

Zoe's never called her a whore, never been anything but pleasant to her, but Inara has to unclench her throat before she can speak. "And she knew better than to marry him." She was striving for lightness, but she got it all wrong; how she sounds is bitter.

Kaylee stills suddenly, like she's been slapped. She slides the closet door shut with fumbling hands. Her face and voice are carefully blank. "I have to go," she says.

"No, please!" Inara begs, hating herself for hurting the girl so. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me to say such a thing." She holds out her arms, pleading for forgiveness. When Kaylee walks into them, her heart seizes with relief and she can't think of the last time she touched somebody so trustingly.

"He's a good man," she hears Kaylee mumble into her shoulder. "He's the one showed me all these worlds."

"I know, bao bei, I know. He's the one who gave me my home."

* * *

[Persephone]

Ni ta ma de. Tianxia suoyoude ren. Dou gaisi. Kaylee's lying on the operating table before him, having metal pulled from her belly, and all he can see is the moment that Alliance bastard, that tah-mah-duh huun-dan, had shot her. He keeps seeing her crumpling to the ground, slow then quick, like a length of fabric.

Jayne's crouched outside the window, hunkered down for a long wait. He knows Jayne'll wait until he sees Kaylee open her pretty eyes, knows it from the way Jayne reacted to Kaylee's interest in the big-shot rich boy. He can't believe he sent Jayne away when it's the doctor who ended up hurting her, using her life as a bargaining chip.

He holds her hand. He wants her to wake up and smile at him and make him forget that there's not only a shepherd on board, but an Alliance officer as well, staining his lovely Serenity, mocking his delusions of independence. He wishes she would wake up.

He watches the doctor's fussy movements, hating him like hell for being so detached. Doesn't he remember the way she smiled at him, admiration lighting up her face? Didn't he see the way her fall had galvanized everyone else into action?

Evidently not. The closest the doctor comes to looking emotional - or human, really - is when he smirks proudly at each bullet fragment he retrieves from her ripped abdomen. He watches the boy root around in her soft flesh. It'll be a pleasure to throw him from the airlock.

Jayne was right; just because they'd acquired plenty of provisions from Prospector, they didn't have to take on passengers. But he'd insisted, and now he and Jayne were watching Kaylee die by inches while Zoe stood guard over a murderous huh choo-shang tza-jiao duh tzang-huo and Wash tried to outrun the law.

He'd doped her himself but she's moaning and trembling under his hands. He knows this can't be a good sign. The doctor's beady eyes stay on the bullet wound, ignoring her pain. He thinks he might let Jayne have a few minutes with this boy in one hand and Raji in the other before pushing him from the airlock.

His body is practically humming with tension and he watches the doctor, sewing Kaylee up, like a hawk. He's savagely grateful that it is Jayne, not Zoe, who will be behind him. The moment the doctor's done with his task, he strides out toward the cargo bay, knowing Jayne will have the boy in a bruising grip. Mercy, reason, compassion - these are all far from his mind. It's not even curiosity that makes him tear apart the box the boy's been so jumpy about; it's just the beginnings of revenge. He needs to know what this lizard-faced brat thought was worth Kaylee's life.

He kicks off the lid and looks down. He sees the box's secret. "Huh."


End file.
